There Is a Season
by girlville
Summary: This fic starts at the beginning. It is primarily a character study.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my newest offering. It's another epic (length) I haven't mastered that brevity thing yet. This has no storyline relationship to my 2 previous fics. This one is a completely canonical interpretation of all 10 seasons (at least that's the plan). I feel like I'm embarking on War and Peace. I cherry picked episodes and scenes that I liked and felt were really pivotal to character development and relationship growth.**

**Again this is an M fic but not at first so give it a shot even if M isn't your bag.**

**"To everything, turn, turn, turn" (The Byrds in case you were wondering - ****Ecclesiastes for the purists)**

* * *

**ONE**

She didn't humour nerves generally speaking, but today, well, today felt like a day to give in. Today they were going to be assigned their first case (murder permitting). She pulled on a dark suit and eyed herself critically in the mirror. **_That's a good little boy,_** she mocked her androgynous reflection. Androgynous by the super sexy standards of her previous position anyway.

She ran a comb (and then borderline manic fingers) through her straight short hair each time finding they tumbled into thin air at the base of her neck, grasping for length that wasn't there. She'd gotten this haircut after her last case in Vice. Vice was a place for fishnet stockings, leather minis and scraggly long tresses that looked just a little to shiny, just a little too clumpy. In Vice she'd needed to be the lowest common denominator - inviting all the boys in the hood to 'go into her' mathematically speaking of course. For all those years she'd gotten her look just right when she reeked of wrong. When Major Case had accepted her - yes much like admissions to the Ivy League many applied but few were invited - she had shorn her hair like an eager cadet and treated herself to the least sexually appealing outfit on the rack.

Fun and games were over.

* * *

Alexandra Eames marched mechanically up the wide granite promenade toward the 12 foot tall glass doors of 1 Police Plaza. The grandeur said 'you've arrived' and her posture said**_ I'm here to get a job done._** She sped past reception and into a crowded elevator. She reached around a woman in a hijab to press eleven. She was ready for a case. She'd been ready for this day since the academy.

But was he?

When she stepped off the elevator and onto the floor of the squad room he was already there, and he was doing what could only be described as _holding court_.

Her partner.

Her new partner.

Robert Goren.

He was the one head and shoulders above a small crowd of women. Alex recognized their backs. A temp admin from holding named Laura, another was Deakins' right hand Sherry and the third was Jeanine from HR. Alex rolled her eyes. If this was business she was a supermodel. One look at her partner's big, thick, body and that unsavoury predatory glint in his eye, and she wanted to turn around and leave the room. But she didn't because this wasn't day one, just case one. Alex had been working shoulder to shoulder with him for almost a month now. A month wasn't long enough to be comfortable but it was long enough not to be surprised. In their month together she'd seen this phenomenon before with Goren and the ladies. There was clearly something compelling about him, Alex couldn't say what exactly because she wasn't in his thrall, but there was _something_.

1 month and with him it felt like 12.

So far they hadn't done any actual detecting together, they had been working in a grunt capacity.

"Consider it Major hazing" Jimmy Deakins had laughed, dimpling them to death. "Everyone here has gotten it one way or another."

So, as ordered they'd been tailing the top MCS detectives, nothing demeaning really, just watching bits of someone else's action interspersed with doing bits of someone else's paperwork. Basically learning the ropes through rote and review and reprimand. Things were different in this rarified air 11 storeys up. They weren't precinct po-po anymore and they needed all that provincial thinking beaten out of them. They were padawans on the precipice, plucked from obscurity because of their stellar records. Major Case detectives were expected to have a certain cachè, a certain breadth of knowledge, a certain confidence and most of all an approach that set them apart.

So with all these notions of greater good and higher calling floating around her skull was it any wonder that Alex was disappointed? She gave him a look. And then she gave those women a look. And like fancy confronted with reason his groupies seemed to evaporate. And it was just the two of them on their grey metal 8 legged island, divorced from the hustle and bustle of the squad room around them.

She nodded at the retreating herd of women. "Is there a clerical crisis I should know about?" Her voice jabbed like a pen knife, quick and dirty, because that was where her strength lay.

"Ha ha." He said dryly lowering casually onto the desktop. Somehow she'd thought he would straighten up, dial it back for an actual case. But Alex found on this oh so important day Goren still had two settings: ON and MORE ON... _**Moron. **_**_No, no. MORE ON._** She tried not to be hostile - even on the inside - because she knew hostility could seldom be kept a secret, it was toxic.

"Good morning Alex." He greeted her formally, even cheerfully, starting over. He swivelled toward her on some poor piece of paper that wrinkled and tore under his posterior.

"Goren." She slapped him back into the 'I'm not your friend' zone. But she kept her eyes on him. How could she avoid it, he was the biggest thing in the room. **_And_ _I'm the smallest. This partnership is a cosmic joke._** His suit was crisp so that was one thing (at least he took dressing seriously) but his hair was maybe a shade too curly, even though she conceded the dark riotous cap suited the boyish fullness of his cheeks.

Lest she look too long (lest he see her lingering gaze as an invitation to chat) she turned away and began to settle in. First sliding off her trench coat, then her purse, then her leather attachè and there was a theme there too, black, sober solid black. A serious colour. She could feel him watching her and so she let her eyes trace the seam between their butted desks. Which reminded her of another petty annoyance, he was sitting in the desk _she_ wanted. It wasn't the actual desk, all these rusty metal cans were the same, it was the _aspect,_ facing Deakins' door. Alex hated sneak attacks. But her partner had fast talked her on desk selection day - something about long legs and proximity to the water cooler and blah blah blah…

"How was your evening?" He asked casually still perched atop. And she _casually_ looked at him like he had 6 heads. What was it about her downturned eyes and iron body that begged for small talk? _**Some detective.**_

"Did you finish the R-10 from yesterday?" She asked instead.

"Finished and filed." He smiled. He let the heel of his shoe bang the metal desk rhythmically. It felt like a gong to the nervous system. Alex sat very deliberately hoping he would follow suit. He didn't. She wanted to ask him if something was wrong with his chair, or if maybe he didn't bend at the waist like the rest of us, because she was seeing now - 23 jittery days in - that he liked to _move_, that a chair was a death sentence to this man. He was the king of perching, leaning, crouching, shaking, rocking and gesticulating. She wanted to carry a skein of rope in her purse, she wanted the option of tying him up.

Instead she asked, "Deakins in yet?"

"No, traffic on the Verrazano sucks."

_**How eloquent.**_

"Figures." And she sighed long and deep and he read it. This was her day. This was the day when she was supposed to become a bonafide Major Case detective. The promise of it hovered in the air just frustratingly out of her reach. **_She wants the action_** he thought, they'd both come of age on a diet of action. And he was so right, Alex felt like she'd been waiting her whole life for this. She just wanted to_ get out of here._ She wanted to hop into a car, she wanted to slice through traffic with purpose, she wanted to duck under the yellow tape with authority. But funny, discomfited by Goren as she was, she didn't make the connection. She was so hell bent on disliking him she didn't see that first ethereal tether form between them, the first tether in what would become a lifetime of tethers.

They were both restless souls.

_She wanted to move too._

* * *

It wasn't until 11:07am that the alarm finally sounded.

"Goren Eames! You've got one." Deakins yelled.

Sweetest. Words. Ever. Uttered.

The energy was addictive, their captain's voice booming, his powerful stride marked with urgency. He briefed them in rapid time on the newest Major case. "Two college kids found dead in a Brooklyn first floor, and $300 million dollars - give or take - in missing diamonds." As briefs went did it get any better? Alex could have swooned instead she grabbed her coat and checked her piece. "You got your binder? Your cell? Keys to your requisition?" Deakins was worse then her mom, but they loved every second of it. The captain stepped up to the big man and straightened his tie and said "Make me proud."

Then he turned back to his office and let them fly.

* * *

In the grey concrete cavern of the 1PP parking garage Goren moved to the driver's side of the big black SUV. Eames headed him off. "I like to drive."

He looked down on her "Shouldn't we draw straws or something."

"I _am_ the short straw." She looked up, way up, scrappily. And because she made him laugh and because he understood the subtext, that driving was the great equalizer, he took his seat on the passengers side. When they arrived the squads were parked everywhere, lights of blue and red rolled slowly and cops crawled all over the city block denoting _their_ crime scene. _And it was theirs._ Everyone deferred when Major Case arrived and that shot through both of them like a rocket.

_Power._

_Awesome power._

Unfortunately like all highs it was short lived. By the hands of her watch it took all of 15 minutes - the distance to run the gauntlet between their vehicle and the parents couch - to be exact. 15 minutes before Goren had taken his gigantic wingtip and inserted it into his equally big mouth. Alex listened to him tell the tortured grieving parents, "Mr. and Mrs. Kersten uh, I can't tell you how sorry we are for what happened to your daughter but _we will_ find the people who did this."

_**Rookie. **_No one said it but every law enforcement professional in the room thought it, in concert. The epithet was so silently loud that it blew their hair back.

"The Sergeant said they were professionals." That from the destroyed tearful father, "That the chances of you catching them were…"

"Mr Kersten I give you my word. We'll catch em." Goren reiterated earnestly.

And sitting there, Alex sensed that this wasn't an anomaly.

This was Goren and this was only the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

"How's life with Goren?"

Her, "Hmmmaphhh," was noncommittal and muffled by a King sized pillow.

Alex sat up slowly and pulled the pearlescent, butter-soft, gazillion thread count sheets over her bare breasts. Here she was surrounded by tasteful neutrals. The accoutrements of the good life. The thick cream coated club chair, the steel bedside table with heavy gauge glass top, the plush diamond embossed carpet, the fresh flowers in a dense cut-crystal vase. **_What man has fresh flowers? Who waters them? Who throws them out? _**The detective in Alex was very curious. Most of the guys she knew picked their outfits off the closet floor and gave them the sniff test.

"That good huh?" Ron said pulling up his pants and securing the zipper. This was a nooner. At his apartment. Glistening droplets clung to his dark shoulders from a recent shower.

She and Ron.

Ronald Carver.

For 2 weeks now.

Banging it out almost every day.

She looked around his well-appointed sex pad again. The city must pay their legal teams well. A damn sight better then their cops. Ron had this apartment, small but perfectly formed, with views of lady liberty and it wasn't even his primary residence. Then she gave her head an invisible shake. This wasn't city salary money. This was something else. Ronald Carver had airs about him, a certain poise, an elocution that spoke of either acquired wealth or pedigree or both. And God knew he was smart, a John Jay undergrad and Harvard Law alum, summa cum laude. Alex knew everything about Ron (everything that was on the public record at least). She was a Major Case detective after all. She'd filled in the blanks with a few carefully crafted questions. She'd even registered for an account on the 'CareerClub' website just to check out his CV.

She watched his bare chocolate back as he moved around the bedroom with ease. She considered their acquaintance. She had met Ron a few times during her stint in Vice but she'd never really _known_ him until her promotion. They had sexual chemistry, but little else in common, which might account for the fact that she'd let him bed her on their first 'date'. The 'date' had been a drink after work, still in suits, still feeling less then fresh. But drinks had lead to a suggestion they go somewhere more comfortable, which had led to a car service - a big black Lincoln - whipping them across town, which had lead to unlocking the door to his place, which had lead to him taking her body on his big firm mattress.

Alex had never been with a black man before this little tryst. She was ashamed to admit it, but she'd never imagined there was a black man on earth that could sexually interest her the way Ronald Carver did. Alex Eames had become a victim of her job, roaming the halls with a patrolman's mentality. When she'd thought about men of colour, his colour specifically, she conjured images of hoodies and petty crime and pants so low even gravity was baffled. Now she was moving in all kinds of new circles. Now her scope was expanding everyday. 1PP was opening her eyes and her thighs.

She moved her legs restlessly under the gossamer linen. She felt a low grade throbbing. He had been a well-endowed, aggressive lover. She quickly tried to quash all the readily accessible stereotypes about penis size, feeling quite mortified that her mind was so narrow, and her attitudes still so hayseed even after all those lessons on the mean streets. Some things were bred in the bone she supposed.

"You don't mind if I leave first do you?" Ron asked, "I have a meeting with Lewin in…" He glanced down at the solid gold face of his Rolex. "45 minutes."

"Hit it and run?" She joked.

He laughed deep and moved toward her. She looked good there, beguiling him with pale flesh, a hint of cleavage and clear soft eyes. He sat down on the edge of the bed "I'd like to spend the whole afternoon 'hitting it' but we civil servants have to earn our crust." He grabbed her mouth with his and she closed her eyes and got lost in it for a moment. She liked this. Really liked this. And she liked him. Probably because he was so casual. Probably because he was taken.

She just didn't want to do the relationship thing right now. Alex had to stay on her game, especially with Goren. **_Goren._** The thought of him upset the idyll. He was so infuriating and so cocky and so inappropriately frank with Deakins. Even Ron's lips on hers weren't enough to quell her Goren rage. Perhaps she could have forgiven Goren his quirks if they hadn't exacerbated her own shortcomings so. Alex felt like a shy kid when she was in a room with Goren, hedging her bets and couching her words and playing it straight. While he boldly pointed fingers and threw out indictments. Not that it didn't come back to bite him occasionally:

_**"Whoever ran this show was impulsive, organized but impulsive." Goren strutted around Deakins office gesturing broadly and in that moment Alex wanted to dissolve into the floor.**_

_**"Goren I realize how unstimulating all this police procedure can be for a right brained guy like you, and I say this with all of the respect due a detective 1st grade - touch all the bases." Deakins pulled his eager detective up short. "What else?"**_

_**Now, Alex thought, was her chance to step in and bring this briefing out of the realm of speculation, "Uh they probably had to pull blueprints so we'll check with the building department and we ran down the limo company that took the Kersten's to Atlantic City we're waiting to hear back."**_

_**"Very nice Alex. Give me a status at 2 o'clock."**_

_**It was all she could do not to stick out her tongue.**_

Carver pulled her back. "Same time tomorrow?" he asked tucking a hand down under the sheets, rubbing the slippery nub between her legs.

"Can't tomorrow," she moaned, "We're out, sting time."

"You're ready already?" He looked surprised and impressed.

"Goren thinks we are." she pursed her lips.

"You really don't like him." Carver eyed her speculatively.

And she eyed him back deeply conflicted. Yes, he was her lover, but what would that even mean next week, next month, next year? He was married. Separated, but still married. Not only that he was a career driven shark. She didn't trust him with her confidences. "I shouldn't be telling tales out of school." She said at last.

"Lawyer client privilege?" He teased.

She squinted, considering, weighing, then she decided his opinion might be more valuable then any damage her words could do. "Goren is a wild card. He hatches all these crazy plans, he's a wind bag of suppositions…" she sighed "And he runs his _big mouth_ to the brass, to the ME, _to the victims_. He's here, he's there, he's everywhere." Her head shook with exasperation.

Ron stopped her with a hand at the small of her back. His gaze was steady, his nod slow and rhythmic. "I understand your frustration. Goren is big, deep and little tannic…"

"Oh, sure, he's a glass of merlot…" she quipped.

He chuckled again "But that's why you're here."

"What do you mean?" Now she was staring at him, hard. Now she was holding her breath waiting for his valued assessment. She felt a knot form in her stomach.

"Goren is brilliant and I don't say that lightly," his lips ticked up, "but his brilliance is in the realm of human behaviour and it's esoteric. Your brilliance" He tapped her head gently "lies in your grasp of police procedure and your broad acumen."

Well he certainly didn't play coy with the big words, but she got his meaning and she wasn't sure she liked it. "You're saying he's the genius and I'm the heavy. They hired me to weigh him down? To tether his balloon?"

"In part, I'm sure."

"Great!" She huffed angrily, "Thanks…"

He stopped her. "I think they got it right."

"How do you figure?"

"Look, what I'm about to say is pure conjecture, I wasn't in the meeting that decided your fates, but I do know Jimmy Deakins. Don't question your abilities. Deakins wouldn't have lobbied for you if your skills weren't commensurate with Goren's. A lesser person wouldn't know where to start with a man like that. Deakins knows you won't take it from him, and that Goren won't be able to leave you in his dust."

She didn't know what to say.

And Ron had said his piece.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead softly. Then he stood up and went to the bathroom. She heard the water running. No doubt he was washing his hands. That was Ron in a nutshell: sexual, frank, intelligent but most of all _proper._ He wasn't going to show up at a top level meeting with a trace of vagina anywhere on his 'temple'. Alex had read him. She saw a hint of obsessive compulsive rigidity lurking in his mannerisms. 'The Carver Way' both fascinated and alienated her. And because her heart was safe, she assessed his behaviour with detachment.

Soon afterward he left. The front door clicked calmly shut behind him and she was alone and naked in his sugar shack with only thoughts of her partner.

Alex sat long and still in that bed in deep contemplation, even though she had real world obligations, even though they had weak little Gia DeLuca sweating bullets in holding cell one. Even though before she'd left for this afternoon 'hook up' Goren had given the script for their interrogation later today. Alex'd been surprised to learn that Goren actually wrote his mad machinations down, a hashed up blend of shorthand and doodles, with a few fully formed thoughts thrown in for good measure, such was enigma of his mind.

His plan for DeLuca was a doozy. A fake AIDS diagnosis. It was a compelling idea, but seemed cruel even for the likes of that pathetic, enabling, nail nibbling, nibbet. But Eames felt she _had_ to defer to Goren. She'd been deferring to him for weeks now. Alex had never considered herself weak, but in an argument - one on one, being met with full force of Goren's arrogance was like being crashed about by a Tsunami. Once he got going, once he pulled out his psych texts and examples she got so spun. Before she knew it she couldn't see land.

Anger flared again at that.

He ran roughshod over her.

Did she want this? Was Major Case really her dream job if it'd only been offered because some eccentric needed a babysitter? How insulting really and how misogynist. Alex knew that law enforcement wasn't a haven for broad minded intellectuals. Most cops were hard and simple and many of the old guard were raging bigots. But she was still surprised. Casting her: a young, vibrant, _legacy,_ female detective at the top of her game, as a nursemaid? **_What were they thinking?_** She _didn't want_ a traditional female role. That was why she'd chosen this path goddammit! She was perfectly irregular, perfectly unique, and now 1PP was trying squeeze her into their boring 'square hole' with a _lunatic._

_**He's a good cop. He's not a lunatic. He's just odd.**_

She tried to talk herself down.

_**Let him fly his freak flag**_ a soft voice implored.

But she was way past reason now.

She made up her mind that day (whipped into a feminist fervor while naked in a powerful man's bed) that she wanted Major Case, they would have to pry Major Case from her cold dead grip, what she didn't want was Robert Goren.


	3. Chapter 3

**THE EXTRA MAN**

She submitted the request.

She had waited until Goren was out on a private appointment. Gratefully they got moments alone during the workday, moments when she could spread her files over that dividing line or make a unilateral decision. Otherwise they would probably have killed each other for all this imposed togetherness. Dentist appointments, haircuts, sexcapades or even taking out a mortgage (as she'd done last week - goodbye Flushing hello Forest Hills) all had to be done on the city dime or they would never get done at all.

"Can I talk to you?" Alex tap tap tapped on Deakins open door, casting a guilty glance over her shoulder at their empty desks. Even though this was a new partnership, a betrayal was a betrayal.

"Sure." Greying and smartly-kept, her Captain looked up and clasped his hands expectantly.

Alex really liked Deakins, compared to O'Sullivan in Vice he was like a cookie baking, snuggle-giving Grandma. He wasn't half bad to look at either. **_Down girl. How many times can you dip your pen in the company ink?_** Besides Jimmy had been married to Angie for a lifetime already and the way he talked about her, that soft affection, well they should be making sausages together, or getting an all-American award. Honestly, Jimmy and Angie was so much better then Jack and Diane.

Alex took a seat. "It's not working out. Me and Goren."

He leaned back. Annoyance was a muscle that twitched in his jaw. "I think you're calling the season a little early. You've got 5 wins, no losses."

"It's about chemistry." She crossed one lean leg over the other.

He sized up his detective. This captain had been doing this a long time, at least 12 years longer then Alexandra Eames, and he knew one thing she and Goren did not lack was chemistry. Watching them was like watching two halves of a whole. Up until 5 minutes ago he'd been patting himself on the back. "I know he's a handful." Deakins selected his words carefully, "but it's a learning curve. He needs to dial it back, you need to ramp it up. You'll be fine."

"No. We won't." She looked boldly into Deakins' open face. She handed him the paperwork. She'd gotten it from HR and then hustled it upstairs. There was no time to waste, she wanted it signed sealed and delivered before she became grist for the gossip mill. She suspected Goren had laid his way through the girls in that department. Add to that the law of women (the one about the elegant gender being one another's harshest critics) and Alex didn't expect any loyalty. She could have sworn she heard someone murmur "_bitch"_ before she'd even cleared the door frame, then again that might've been her conscience. Clutching freedom in her hot little hand she hastily tucked into her desk and proceeded to dot all the i's cross all the t's. Then she penned the required handwritten explanation. Putting her frustration and anger into a civilized, coherent blurb was hard, but it was also good because the paper was but one foe, her captain was another entirely. Alex knew she would be held to account.

Deakins stared at the sheets like they were space dust. "Did Goren do something?"

"No." She moved her head restlessly. "Look, can I level with you?"

"Please do." His gaze was unwavering.

"This is a boys club. I know that, you know that. I can deal with anything you/they hand me, I'm a damn good cop. But…" She paused "I have ovaries but I'm nobody's mother. And I sure as hell am not here to govern someone else's behaviour. I want to work with someone that understands the politics, that appreciates my contribution and that wants what I want." She was breathing heavily now, her hands were trembling now, she was coursing with bile and moxy. She hoped he understood this outburst. She hoped he could empathize with her, and grasp all the crap she'd had put up with to get here. She hoped he knew she wasn't yelling at him, just railing at the injustice of it all.

"Okay." he said at last.

"Okay?"

"Okay. I respect your position. We'll set the wheels in motion."

**_The putsch more like._ _That was easier then I thought._**

This whole conversation felt so wrong to Alex and yet _so_ right.

Freedom.

She could taste freedom.

* * *

She was sitting at her desk when he came back. Sitting as though nothing had happened at all.

"Hi." He rumbled.

"Hey." She didn't look up.

She heard the soft plop of something, then the crinkle of something else. She had to look up now. Coffee and a crumpled paper sac sat right in her field of view. She met his warm brown gaze.

"For you." he said.

He may well have said "Et tu Brute?" And revealed her as just another in a line of deserters. And yet she sat here deviously as he rewarded her with drinks and snacks.

"Thanks." She didn't know what to do, so she reached out and took a sip, _**perfect**_, 3 sugars one cream, not too hot.

"No problem."

"Where's yours?" She asked kindly. She hadn't given him much kind lately.

"My mouth is still frozen." He gave her a half-smile, Bell's palsy style.

"So you just went… You only got coffee for…"

"Yeah. No big deal." Goren shook off his coat and sat. Actually sat. He was doing that more now. He was settling into himself and into their duo. "But I went to see Sydney Markham first."

She stopped mid-sip "Oh?" _Now_ she remembered why he annoyed her so much.

He did that a lot; went off on his own to work the case alone then filled her in after the fact, "Yeah I figured since it was on the way." He scanned her face for an 'okay' he got a stony glare. "She just needed a push, a male one. She's very susceptible to masculine overtures, it was best I go alone."

"If you say so." Alex bit out. "Did you get anything?"

"Not from her, not yet." He said giddily, "But let's play a hunch. Look up Sammy Bell for me, Markham's driver." Alex wanted to snark_** I'm not your secretary**_. And it was so mean. It was so out of the realm of normal workplace responses that she immediately knew that going to Deakins had been the right thing to do. Their personal politics were getting in the way of the case, at least for her. She looked at his bent curly head, he was blissfully ignorant, _**the birthright of men**_ she skewered him silently.

She pulled up the requested RAP sheet. "Besides driving Mrs. Markham Samuel Bell has been arrested for bookmaking and a couple of dope pops."

"The book making, who were his associates?" Suddenly Goren was beside her leaning into her. She could feel waves of heat warming her left side. _**Sure,**_ she thought _**a man this size can probably power a house or roast a turkey with all those kilojoules of energy**_.

"Two. Tommy Dunan, and Leslie Roche convictions for:" She ticked through, "Assault, assault, assault..."

"A collector." Goren surmised.

"He's still on probation, couple of phone numbers."

"Let's track him down." They stood in an unchoreographed rhythm searching the squad room for the silence of a land line and closing office door. Once they were settled in he gave her an unsolicited pep talk, "You have be sweet, bubbly, innocent. Can you do that?" He leaned in, "Because we can get Laura and script her up."

"I was vice, I was more actor then cop for 7 years." She bit out in annoyance. "Give me a break. This is pie."

He looked at her and blinked. _Now_ _he saw something,_ anger and unhappiness. And in that moment waves of realization swamped him. She wasn't settling in she was distancing, documenting grievances, cataloguing slights. He'd seen this before. Goren knew he wasn't what you'd call a get-along kinda guy. Partners to Robert Goren were like Kleenex, fresh, new, useful, then dirty, then gone. He'd been a detective for 10 years and he'd been through 8 partners. But he liked Alex. More then that, he liked himself with her. He liked that he cared what she thought of him. His deep respect for her helped him govern himself appropriately. He didn't want to say goodbye to Alexandra Eames and all of a sudden he knew that goodbye was coming. "I... I didn't mean... I... Sorry."

"Uh huh." She brushed him off. She picked up the phone dialled and was instantly transformed in someone else. Someone who was just as he'd described. "Hi! Is Les there? It's Sandi..." She started, her voice young and guileless and her affect magnetic.

And because he was but metal in her field, her force played on him, he listed toward her.

He couldn't pry his eyes away.


	4. Chapter 4

**THE PARDONER'S TALE**

"Eames I gotta see a buddy about a '71 Malibu you wanna come?"

"Sure I love meeting your buddies." And there was only the barest hint of sarcasm. That was a real chunk of personal growth for a woman like her. A woman who acerbically oozed. Goren had more oddball buddies then anyone she'd ever met. Bikers and computer nerds and ex-military sharpshooters and people so powerful in the fed they could hide someone from themselves. For Alex every misfit was another piece of his puzzle. And rule number one was know thine enemy.

Turned out Goren's buddy that day, was the most normal of the lot. A mechanic. It was all very 'Some Kind of Wonderful' with the grease and plaid and wrenches. Neither of the detectives fit in, skirting half assembled cars and welders sparks in their sharp smart Brooks Brothers facades. But one thing was for certain, Goren's was relaxed. Very relaxed. _Known you for a lifetime_ kind of relaxed.

"351, four barrel. Who you trying to outrun?" Alex leaned under the hood and blew the boys away with her automobile prowess. She loved doing that.

"Whoa I think I'm in love." The greasy man looked up all besotted from under the hood. Bobby didn't miss Lewis' hot eyes roaming over the length of Alex's retreating body. Lewis was never subtle and no one would call him undersexed.

Bobby whacked him hard just to stop the ogling.

"Man you have got to get me a piece of that." Lewis said almost loud enough for Alex to hear.

"Calm down! That's my new partner. I really don't need a sexual harassment allegation on top everything else." He muttered that last part.

"Oh I get it, you've pissed her off too. You are professional kryptonite man. You need to start playing nice. People _can_ like you, I'm living proof."

"Oh shut up."

"Just be subtle with her, test the waters for me. I'd take her out in a heartbeat."

Bobby rolled his eyes "I'll see what I can do."

NOTHING. A big fat nothing. That was what he was going to do. He felt very possessive of Alex all of a sudden. He didn't want to hand her over to Lewis. Not that she was Bobby's to do anything with, mind you. Truth be told he was a little bit afraid of Alexandra Eames. And it was a weird feeling. He had never tread lightly with a partner before. He had never worried about offending them. His constant self awareness around her, was both limiting and gratifying and he couldn't ignore what it meant. It meant he cared. And because he cared there was nothing he could do except build a bridge.

So he sat beside her and plotted; as they rolled along on their city issue leather seats; as he watched her profile; as the air vent blew on his cheek. Lewis had given him a gift. The gift of impartiality. Detective Goren couldn't up and ask Detective Eames if she was dating, how inappropriate. But a guy named Bobby could be wingman to a guy named Chris Lewis. His smitten friend was the perfect excuse to get his relationship with Eames on a more personal trajectory. He desperately wanted to know more then what had been in the file he'd charmed out of Susanna in HR.

"I like your friend" Alex unwittingly got the ball rolling as she pulled the Explorer out into traffic.

"He likes you too." That was the understatement of the year. "_Really_ likes you." Goren's palms felt sweaty but it was now or never. "I - is - is he your type?" He held his breath, they had never gotten this close before.

"He could be. I don't generally turn down gainfully employed, reasonably good looking men." She played along staring at the road, injecting a lightness they had never achieved.

"So I can give him your number?" _**Dammit.**_ This wasn't where he wanted this to go, but what else could he do.

"Uh, no. I thought this was all hypothetical," She glanced over curiously now, "I'm seeing someone."

"You are?"

"Don't sound so surprised." She said and as far as she was concerned that was the end of that.

"I'm not surprised." He said keeping the conversation embers burning, because he wasn't. She was great. A great… partn… woman. His tone made her look over because it sounded like so many shades of masculine. Unbidden she found herself thinking, **_so that's his allure._** And thinking that, sussing out his human parts, seeing his charisma, hearing the kindness in his admission, made her soften a fraction.

"You'll be breaking his heart." Goren tried again feeling strangely annoyed that Alex had found the time for a boyfriend.

"I'm sure Lewis will get over that 10 minutes we knew each other."

"Is it anyone I know?" He pressed a little harder, not looking at her as he did. "Your guy?"

"We should probably stick to the case." She firmly quashed his curiosity.

"Okay." He sighed and slapped his thighs with those big palms.

And they rode in silence for a mile. Which was just about the length of time it took for Alex to start to regret being so short with him. "Or maybe I should be asking what you and Lewis got up to in a 1966 Ford Fairlane convertible? Or was that all about the big dent?" She said good naturedly.

He laughed, remembering how they had ran Vicki Malloy's new VW into a lamppost. Dented it up so good he couldn't even get out the passengers side door. But Vicki _had_ managed to slap his face through the broken window. He told Alex as much.

And she laughed.

Really laughed.

And it was sweet and melodic and normal.

And Goren began to hope that they would be okay.

* * *

To say he was brash was an understatement.

Bold.

Impertinent.

Skating on the edge of nuts.

Shouting, "Boo! Made ya look," into the ear of a suspect. That was new. Twisting his torso like a warmed street pretzel. Alex shook her head, what she and Deakins and Carver really needed to accompany this interrogation was a bag of popcorn.

And when it was over, and when Goren exited stage left (mopping his brow and looking for accolades), another thing became glaringly obvious to Alex, he, her partner, just didn't like her lover.

**_Lover_**. There were so many words she could use to describe her relationship with Ron but only lover really did justice to a mature, mutual, sexual arrangement. It was there for all to see. Robert Goren and Ronald Carver repelling as like poles would. Bouncing away from one another in frustration time and time again. The count so far was 4. Goren had gotten right into Ron's face 4 times during this case and every time come away frustrated.

And Alex? Well she'd had the unique opportunity to stand back and place her bet. Which boxer would be victorious? Her money was on Ron. He was in the power seat. He was the one who would define this case. A case that pissed in courtyard of the Executive Mansion. Albany was so much closer then it seemed. Ronald Carver understood self preservation and moderation and a measured approach. And Alex was pretty sure he was about to school Goren. Goren who thought that moderation and measure were nothing more then quaint words.

"This is big. Very big." Goren murmured to Carver looking through the glass of observation room 5 at Joe Nawrocki and his lawyer in their muted tete a tete. And there was awe in the detective's tone. He understood the potential scope of this case. Goren was daydreaming about taking the Governor of the state of New York on a perp walk.

"According to a drug addict." Carver's voice was low and slow.

"What you don't think he was involved?" Goren's voice went up an octave with the dawning of his own awareness. Goren was seeing Carver more fully now, this 'ally' was actually an opponent. Way over on the other side of the spectrum, politically speaking.

"I do, I just don't think it goes beyond him."

"What did you vote for the governor?" Goren's pitch almost cracked on incredulity.

"I take it you didn't. But then again that wouldn't influence _your_ judgment would it?"

The other thing about watching them, was that Alex felt surprisingly impartial as they verbally tussled. It was odd, considering she was so deeply bound to both of them. You'd figure she'd have been all churning guts, and 'boys please stop'. But she instead she found herself goading silently. _**Oooooh nice one Ron**_ or **_Don't let him get away away with that, go for the jugular Goren_**.

She didn't know where this bloodlust came from. She supposed there was a dark psychological root. Normally Alex didn't truck with all the impalpable theories that psychiatrists plied - mommy issues, daddy issues, birth order, potty training standoffs. But in this situation it was clear she had issues. She had a lot of repressed aggression for both men. She darted her head back and forth between them, lost in thought. From short to tall, from dark to light. Ron the philanderer and Robert the relentless. _**And Alexandra the facilitator**_ she snarked **_don't absolve yourself here_**. She could have told Ron to _fuck off_ long ago because he was married. Instead she'd laid down and spread her legs. She could have pulled Goren aside at anytime in the last 7 months and given him a talking to about his behaviour, instead she'd sat silently and then gone over his head. Maybe she was biding her time so she could relish the eventual explosion when she walked away, from both of them. But she feared that wasn't it at all. She feared that her anger flowed from weakness. Both of these men had weakened her and that struck at the heart of her sense of self. So, like a victim, she stood there impotently and silently urged them to drop the gloves and go at it. All it was missing was a ring full of mud, no jello, **_you want to see what you're getting_** she smirked privately.

But she couldn't sideline forever. Her silence would be conspicuous. And when it came to this case there was really no ambiguity about how Alex felt. Both her politics and her self-interest aligned with Goren's. She had to throw in with him. "I like my job too captain but this is going to go where it's going to go."

And as the energy in the room left his favour, it was clear the ADA'd had about enough. Carver spared a moment to shoot her an annoyed glance. And Deakins was there but he seemed decoupaged to the dull grey wall. Only three people existed, three points of a bizarre triangle.

"It's not going anywhere unless we have corroborating evidence against Mr. Nawrocki. Until then I'm not going near a grand jury." Then he turned (and Alex swore it was on the sweep of a large black cape). Ron knew how, and when, to exit - before he was compromised, when he was on top.

Always on top.

* * *

"They should teach this case in the governor's school of government." Carver preened, although he'd won on a double cross that he'd tricked them into perpetrating.

"Law school ethics class that's where they should teach it." Goren wasn't so forgiving.

Alex stayed mum, best not to tread here, especially since in the end it was a draw. Goren was enormously self-righteous and Ron was exceedingly pompous, and yet they were both strangely correct. And because Alex couldn't straddle two points of view, and because she had to choose, and because she still wasn't prepared to go off in a third way (_her own way)_ she turned into a brisk wind, on a wide New York promenade, and matched her partner stride for stride.


	5. Chapter 5

**THE THIRD HORSEMAN**

"Goren! _Come in_." Deakins commanded from behind his desk, drawn from his work by frenetic activity outside his office door. First a big head bobbing in and out of view, then some vigorous pacing across the opening, then the long shadow of wide shoulders filling the door frame, then an apelike arm that shot up and a hand that sank like a grappling hook into the overhead casing. Currently Goren hung there waiting. Deakins hid a smile. Goren always seemed like something inside, some creature, was trying to escape. Or maybe he was at the whim of a demonic puppeteer.

"Can I help you?" The Captain hid everything behind a clipped speech.

The detective looked briefly over his shoulder across the squadroom at a pair of empty desks then stepped inside.

"Ummm…" Goren murmured, lingering at the back of the room. He wasn't sure he wanted to be here at all.

"Have a seat." And that was an order. Deakins couldn't watch one more second of Goren's graceless dance.

Goren sat.

They stared.

Deakins sighed, then he looked at his watch. Tactics, all tactics. He wasn't going to propel this meeting. He wanted his detective to _own_ the conversation because he knew exactly what this was all about.

"This is about Eames." Goren said at last.

"I figured." Jimmy leaned back in his black leather chair.

"She isn't happy." Goren admitted.

"She told you?" The rise of his voice betrayed excitement. **_That would be great._ **Jimmy thought.**_ If Eames is talking, what a great sign._** Then they might just be able to work this out from the inside.

"No" Goren's smile was self-deprecating. "I figured it out. I've had a lot of practice with dissatisfied partners."

"What can I do for you?" The superior officer let the room agitate against gritty discomfort. Goren was a big boy and a student of human behaviour. He knew what he was doing and he knew how to correct it. Worse, if he didn't come to it on is own, they would _all_ be in this situation again, with his next victim, in 3 months.

"Make her stay." Goren exploded suddenly. Jimmy arched a surprised brow. It sounded almost childlike.

"I think that's between you and your partner."

"We aren't there yet." Goren admitted.

"What do you mean?"

"We can't be candid with each other yet. She doesn't want it. Sh..sh..she's distancing. I think she's trying to keep herself from forming the attachment."

Deakins nodded. He knew exactly what the younger man meant. He knew that it was imperative that police partners bond properly and deeply. The police partnership was a lot of things, but the best analogy he'd heard was a sexless marriage, although (this Captain wasn't naive) many were also not-so-sexless marriages. He'd seen it all.

In fact given the way Goren went through partners Deakins was a little surprised at the insight. He supposed he shouldn't be. He'd lobbied for Goren for just this reason, his intellectual prowess was legendary in the inner (upper) circles of the NYPD. As a Major Case detective Robert Goren was tailor made. Unfortunately, as a man there might be some holes in his education. The thought made him both pensive and a little sad because this wasn't just a job to Jimmy Deakins. He cared.

Goren broke in. "I just need her to give me a chance. I just need another month."

"What do you propose?"

"Stall the paperwork."

**_So he knew. No one had told him but he knew._**

Deakins wondered how it felt to be Robert Goren. Did the rejection become commonplace? Was he secretly depressive? How did this man make it through? What compartments had he formed on the inside just to get the job done?

_**And God!**_ Goren's eyes were soft when they implored. They were worse then the little bich-poo (Bichon Poodle) pup he and Angie had bought for their girls last week. Why in the hell couldn't he dredge up some of that charm with his partner? Why was he a lumbering fool who went rogue the moment Alexandra Eames walked into the room? The thought annoyed Deakins to no end because there really was only one reason a man and woman disliked one another without cause. **_Maybe I should fastrack Eames' request so they can date,_** he snarked. But no, he couldn't. 10 cases in, endless kudos, a sore back from the rounds of congratulatory slapping and MCS's best numbers in 5 consecutive quarters and now the sad truth was revealed: self interest. Deakins _needed_ this pair to stay together.

"Now Goren, you know I can't contravene my detective's wishes."

"I know. But you can… I don't know, slow the wheels of bureaucracy?" He suggested. "She would never be the wiser."

The Captain leaned even farther back and gave that some thought. He was sort of doing it anyway. He'd copied Eames' request. He'd put the document in her file, but he hadn't submitted it to HR because once he did, it was out of his hands.

But in this Captain's mind there was a big difference between a personal decision to take his time with a 'TZ515: Dissolution of Partnership' and to deliberately collude with an interested party. If he did what Goren asked it would feel a little too much like engineering Eames' future. A little too much like playing God with her _male_ colleague and that was an unforgivable act of chauvinism.

"I can't do that." He said.

"You can't…" Goren's face fell like a novice souffle.

"I can't do _that_, but there is something I can do." Deakins came forward and meditated on tented fingers.

"What's that?" Goren also leaned in. He slung an ankle across one meaty thigh.

He _wanted_ Eames. _**Professionally of course.**_ For the first time in his career he was willing to sacrifice anything.

"I'll talk to her." Deakins told him.

"You aren't going to tell me what you'll say?"

"No." The Captain shook his head sharply. "No. I have to talk to Eames first. And don't balk at the outcome. Not if you want to keep your partner." Goren looked so concerned that Deakins offered further words just to sooth. "Don't worry, it doesn't affect your status or pay grade or duties." And unspoken in the crystal clear silence were the words _**but it affects hers.**_

And Goren felt himself nodding emphatically.

Eames was proud, he knew that about her. She was proud and he was obsessive.

He saw it so clearly now, the way that his single-mindedness had trampled her dignity. He hadn't meant to offend but he knew he had. If he wanted her to stay, she needed to have her value quantified and codified.

The thing about Robert Goren was he didn't want to lead. He wanted autonomy, no, he _needed_ autonomy but he would gladly cede the details of power to her capable hands if they could just keep working together. That was all he wanted, he and Deakins were on the same page. Just like that he surged to his feet and made for the door, he left, then he turned and came back and said "Thanks." Then he was gone again.

"Good talking to you too." Deakins muttered to the Goren sized void he left behind.

* * *

She was in the power seat and she was loving it. This case was the most unedited Goren had ever seen his partner. A raging feminist, an emotional advocate, and a Miss. Bossy Pants, shouting out orders and slapping the bracelets on her nemesis with extra vigour.

"Maybe you read only the parts of the bible you like, but what I remember from Sunday school is that God _stopped_ Abraham from killing." She ground heathen glass into Cutler's delicate religious sensibilities.

And their ploy, the one to plant spyware on Cutler's PC, that was all Eames. It was invigorating for Goren to see her so engaged. She'd told him "paint me as an over eager bitch." Which he had and then some. Which had lead to an awkward encounter in front of Zach the tech. Where she'd held him, _her partner,_ to a corkboard of a scrutiny with her push pin eyes and demanded to know if he was _"_with her or against her._"_

"_There's reason to hope. We have friends in surprising places even in the New York City police. I met a detective who thinks picking up the sword is the only option left to stop the abortion factories._" she quoted "You told him that?"

"To earn his confidence."

"Not to mention his love and admiration."

"True believers expect everyone to think like them."

She sighed, clearly upset, "What do you really think?

"I'll tell you what I think when I get pregnant."

"You're going to have to do a lot better then that Bobby." And he knew in that moment he really had to, or Alexandra Eames was going to melt him with her gamma rays. This case was making her unbelievably aggressive. It was a little arousing actually, **_professionally arousing_**, to see her so uncompromising.

"Okay," He turned and looked deep into her amber eyes, "Life is full of uncertainty, people need to have options. Abortion has got to be one of those options. That's what I think." He sensed that brevity was prudent. Say any more and he would hang himself, say any less and she would demand more. He _really did_ believe that women needed options. A world without abortion was inconceivable, but Bobby also wouldn't call himself pro-choice by any stretch. He also believed in some degree of unborn rights, as well as contraception and contemplation over invasive surgery. That was what he really thought, but Eames wasn't looking particularly open minded today.

* * *

Alex may have been unrelenting but she was also soaring. She was feeling better about MCS all around. She'd sat down with Deakins and he had sung her (and Goren's) praises. And as a reward for coming out of the barrel like a bullet he'd given her 5% pay bump, 4 extra vacation days and senior partner status including: directing their team of two, okaying all strategies and verifying the the final version of events as they would be presented to both the DA and the brass. This new responsibility was the most gratifying thing that had ever happened in her career, save getting her Major Case position.

"Have you talked to Goren about this?" She asked.

"I will. And I think he'll be on board. I think he'll be the first to admit that we need your energy at the helm."

"What kind of energy is that?" She sat stock still waiting for any 'kiss of death' phrases like feminine influence, or multi-tasking, or deserving, all of which reeked of affirmative action.

"Strength, certainty. A vision of the future with a respect for protocol. Look Alex, we both know that this job lives and dies by the protocol. Goren isn't quite there yet. You need to be running things."

She wanted to do a little jig right there in office. She managed to make due with a small smile.

"And my request?" She'd asked from the doorway as she left. She'd almost forgotten.

"It's in the system." Deakins crossed his fingers under his mahogany desk. "You'll be the first to know."

* * *

Ron was happy for her too. She'd told him over lunch and then she stole way with him for 15 minutes. 15 minutes was all it took for them to work down their pants behind the closed doors of his office. She'd needed it badly. Turned out professional euphoria and sexual euphoria were very closely related. But maybe things _were_ changing. She talked him out of a bed and into spontaneity. She pushed him back onto the couch and got astride. She rode herself straight to her happy place with very little regard for what _he_ was doing and feeling. And like a man, when she was done she gave him a peck on the cheek, climbed off, told him he was a great fuck (in just those words). Then she straightened her pants and went back to work.

Alex was on top everywhere.

Later they met again. In Observation room 2 with their work faces in place. She eyed Ron speculatively, she wondered if this could go somewhere. She wondered if she could love him.

"Inoculate them how?" She questioned "By telling the jury you agree with Griscom on abortion?"

"Hm." He smiled and nodded, "Crossed my mind."

"You really believe abortion is murder?"

"Like I said, as long as you bring me the evidence convicting this gentleman shouldn't be a problem." He caressed her arm and made his exit.

**_Slippery as a fish._ **She thought. And it left Alex feeling as cold as one. Bobby's answer she could live with. Ron's was that of the consummate opportunist. And on further consideration it was exactly the answer she expected. Ronald Carver was as changeable as the wind. He was whoever he needed to be to win.

She needed more.


	6. Chapter 6

**HOMO HOMINI LUPUS**

This one was hard. It brought up all of her latent anger. That asshole Lucas Colter and his constant refusals of their help. That man could spin it whatever way he wanted but the fact was he was putting himself before his daughter. _His own daughter._ Because Lucas Colter was a dirty embezzler. His personal identity was so wrapped up in his stuff and his prestige, that he'd lost all reason. And let's face it, if you were Lucas Colter and your life was contest between your daughter's virtue and 14 years in a medium security prison, the kid came out a clear second.

Alex's rampaging feminism was never far off the surface. This disgusting dad was everything that was wrong with society, including the fact that women (like his wife and two innocent young daughters) were ruled by this ridiculous patriarchy! This system of masculine overlords who told women when to jump and how high! Who told women to just lay down and take it like good little victims of ambition!

The whole thing made her want to vomit.

Every ounce of this case was repugnant.

Except for Bobby.

She smiled in spite of herself, because she was trying Bobby (the name) on for size. She was using it all the time now. Same number of syllables as Goren but it felt so much easier, so much friendlier in the mouth and then rolling off her tongue.

Bobby was as disturbed by all this as she was. He was fighting just as hard as she was for Maggie Colter.

For Alex the turning point had come at the top of the Colter's staircase, when she'd once again found herself gripping a newel post 5 anxious paces behind Bobby. _**Wait!** _She wanted to call. _**Don't you dare bull in a china shop this kid!** _But it was good that she hadn't said a word, because that moment inside that house had made her reassess everything she'd laid on him, all her distancing and her snark and her comfortably negative conceptions.

At first Alex stood back as the mother did the introductions. All of the women in this house had dark, haunted eyes. Then Alex took her seat near the bed. And engaged her sensitivity training. But she soon found it was no use. With Maggie Colter she just couldn't break thorough. It became apparent that her gender was a liability. It went against everything they'd been taught to do. Women and children with 'sensitivities' about men were _always_ better being questioned by women. This girl had extenuating circumstances, Stockholm, she was identifying with the men that had violated her. Alex edged slowly to back of the room and let Bobby handle the young rape victim.

At first she had watched him moving and twitching and ranting. He was brash and far too loud for this small, small space and for this poor, sad, vulnerable teen lying fetally on a maroon bedspread, Alex wondered if she'd made a horrible mistake.

And then the breakthrough.

_And it was awesome to behold._

And Alex watched Bobby sit, and then soften and then curve deeply toward their victim, then he lowered his voice, then he took her in his arms.

Alex watched him coo and console, petting those scraggly ginger locks on that destroyed head. And he touched that child with equally unbridled care.

Alex felt her face heat and she felt blessed just to bear witness._** He is a good person.**_ And slowly, ever so slowly, Alex felt that annoyance and dissatisfaction, that was now nine months deep, thaw and ripple in the warmth of a winter chinook.

* * *

"Let me see those hands." He asked as they drove away. She held one out. It was solid, unwavering. This was the post shoot test. Were you lucid and sure, or shaky and anxious.

"Steady as a rock." She met his eye.

"It was a good shoot. The world is a better place without him." He said and he meant it.

"Thanks partner."

Alex was mostly at peace with what she'd had to do, but still, righteous shoot or not, it was important to have his support.

"Call me tonight, if things get rough." He reached out then and touched her elbow. It was the first time he'd ever done that deliberately.

"I will."

And she really meant it.


	7. Chapter 7

"You know, you can be a real bitch!"

"Right back at you." Alex yelled at her sister, her sister who thought that being married with a child meant she deserved special accommodation. Liz was constantly quoting from the wedded shrew's handbook. The older woman was a schizophrenic of entitlement. The mother in her had the right to free evenings, the nurse in her had the right to cast aspersions on all medical procedures and the know-it all in her drew up schedules with no intention of contributing to their practical application.

"Are you going to go or not?" Liz was harsh. Liz knew this was a request Alex couldn't refuse.

"Okay fine. I'll go. I'll go." Alex spat and hung up, cutting off her sister's empty gratitude.

She'd been home for all of a half an hour and now she had to change her clothes and brave the world again. She put the phone down on the countertop and sighed from her soul.

Now she had to put on her socially acceptable sweats (not these ragged worn threadbare ones that should have hit the tub of her washer instead of her body). A penchant for procrastination - in laundry, in hygiene, in meals - was one of many dirty little secrets between a single woman and herself. When you lived alone, all these small things seemed like victimless crimes.

And alone was just what Alex wanted to be. She desperately needed a night of solitude to lick her wounds. She wanted to savour her promotion and forget about the thick cloying blood of that Serbian nightmare. Even 4 days on it squished sickly between her clenched fingers, even though she'd only fired and never touched him. Sometimes the weight of her life, the decisions, the responsibilities, _the duty_ was too much. To the world she was as steady as a rock, at home she was still a rock, only a weakened, porous one crumbling away and full of holes. She hid it well. But at times like this it threatened to swamp her.

Death.

Her constant companion.

She didn't think about Joe anymore. She didn't need to think about someone who was in the whisper of every single breath. She didn't need to think about him until she was the one that delivered a fatal gut shot. She didn't need to think about him until now, until she was on the cusp of losing someone else so _so_ dear.

Alex had a secret. She was living in the shadow of end of life care.

Her mother had been dying for 6 months now, breast cancer metastasized.

They'd prayed hard. Them all, her stooped greying father and his 3 distinct children. They had all battled, only to find they were ineffective auxiliary warriors. The real fight was in her mother's flesh and no one could help. Alex remembered it clearly, her mother so pale, so glazed, so wan. "I think I'm done fighting Ally." She whispered.

It was horrifying to watch a person you loved erode until they no longer looked like, or acted like or_ smelled_ like the one you knew. It was horrifying to visit family in a place that wasn't home. It was horrifying that sterile environment with it's uncomfortable attempts at comfort - a throw pillow on sharp melamine bench or cheery curtains over commercial grade windows. It was horrifying all of the _strangers,_ the omnipresent staff that knew _her_ mother better then anyone now because they fed her, dressed her, and bathed her. It was horrifying to watch a circulatory systems worth of tubes secured to your mother's limp limbs with tape - tubes, running clear fluids in and murky ones out. Perhaps the worst was the steel. Everywhere cold steel, knocking your hip, your arm, your head against the bed frame or the food cart or IV pole, there was nothing soft. _No._ No the worst had to be the beeping, God the infernal beeping and whirring and wheezing...

And this was where Liz was sending her, after a day of murder straight into a hospice room that reeked of death.

She looked around her living room savouring a few seconds more. Home was alchemy. Home synthesized all of her damaged people. The woman succeeding in a man's field, the sad widow, the downtrodden daughter and the broken baby tossing her toys (her virtue) out of the pram, the baby that sabotaged the good relationships and courted toxic ones. Alex wasn't going to analyze her behaviour she couldn't afford to. But she knew, _she knew_ that all this stress had to find a destructive outlet and that outlet's name was Ronald Carver.

As she shoved her legs angrily onto fresh pants. Alex wished her mother would just go.**_ Just go, just leave me alone, I need to live._** And then the guilt weighed so heavy that she clutched the corner of her dresser and almost lost that five ounces of red wine she'd chugged. And inside she plead for forgiveness. In that corner of her heart, that red pulsing ageless corner she begged, **_Please mommy don't leave me._**

Soon hot tears were spilling down her pale cheeks.

Hot tears for a million reasons.

* * *

"Amanda get down here right now and clean up your sh…" His wife's hostile glare censored him. "Your stuff."

The amount of crap that was unleashed in the wake of 11 year old girl was tantamount to terrorism and comparable to six toddlers. But at least back then, in the toddler phase, she'd been sweet. Back then her innocence had coated the anger like pepto bismol. How could you really rage about primary coloured building blocks, squeaky giraffes and googly eyed creatures?

This, right now, _this was warfare_. This was the baby he knew morphing into a smart-mouthed wildchild. Jimmy looked around the living room at all of the open CD cases, the bottles of nail polish and the little pink scraps of clothing that he hoped _to God_ where headbands and not skirts or tube tops. And there were a pair of bright red running shoes on the sofa and there was a book bag that had been opened, rifled through and then left mangled and gaping like a crime scene. He shook his head looking down at crumpled sheets of foolscap strewn across the carpet and Bic pens now occupied the seams of his favourite recliner.

"You girls need to get your act together!" He railed (as he did at least once daily) to deaf ears. "You're almost teens, you're almost in high school."

"Sorry dad." Amanda herself came bounding loudly down the stairs. Then the thin waif-like thing he and Angie had created, used small hands to gather, starting her disaster recovery effort. "Chloe was over we were working on our project…" And every time his daughter bent over she displayed the scalloped edge of red satin panties and a hint of butt cleavage. And Jimmy sighed. He sighed like Hercules must have, with the weight of Major Case and a mortgage and low rise jeans on his shoulders.

"Project right," He cut her off his voice heavy with sarcasm "and eating tacos" he crumpled a wrapper angrily, "And doing your nails. Just. Clean. It. Up!" And that was his final word. He'd reached saturation. He'd reached full system failure. He used one meaty hand to sweep the junk off of his precious chair and collapsed into it like his legs had given way. His eyes were closed to the venomous looks shot by the viperous females he lived with. It was hard being the only one with testosterone in these four walls.

"Jim you need to…" Angie started and he held up a hand. A single palm that would probably cost him much need closeness and coitus later, but so be it. "Take the dog for a walk." His wife finished spunkily her hands on her hips.

"Not my dog, not my problem." He announced from behind closed lids. He was already drifting on the turquoise waves off the coast of that smallish Hawaiian Island, which was it? Kaua'i. Yeah, he was floating off the coast of Kaua'i.

* * *

The silence was oppressive. He sat there in his club chair, legs elegantly crossed, with the rocks melting into his scotch and weeping all over the crystal tumbler. The glass made wet rings on his ebony walnut accent table. **_So what,_ **he thought**_ so what if it marks._** And that thought was truly rebellion for a man like him.

He had no obligations, not tonight. The courts didn't have his name on the docket. His wife was probably putting Frederick to bed, but not in the adjacent room, no she was doing that some 35 miles away in a white colonial in Westchester county. **_Frederick Ronald Carver III_** a beautiful 5 year old boy. And this place, this apartment - also small and perfect, hadn't (like Frederick) been a consequence of their ill-conceived union. Ron had always had this sparkling little gem on the Hudson because Patrice didn't think 'the city' was any place to raise a child and Ron didn't think a 50 minute commute (one way) was any way to live a life.

So, there he sat and he could actually hear the whir of his Sub-zero which had been sold to him on the promise of clean lines and complete silence.

And he felt lonely.

And he felt self-loathing there in that chair, pining for his lover and unsoothed by his opulent environment. It was dark too. It was almost 8pm. And the only glow cast around the apartment came from boats throwing beams from the river, from the soft uplighting of the grand statue, from the one or two buildings that encroached on his clean view and from the orange flashing light on his cordless phone.

One new message.

Only Patrice called him here.

He sighed and picked it up.

"Ron." Her voice was shrill and the waves of her frustration made him recoil. "Ron you haven't called in two days. You have a family, please try and remember that. No one ever said on their deathbed I wish I'd spent more time at the office." And he rolled his eyes and resented her for that hackneyed little observation. "Freddy misses his daddy. Ron I thought you just needed to clear your head, I thought we both needed perspective but this is getting out of hand."

She'd said his name 3 times, he felt indicted 3 times, he felt attacked there in his two thousand dollar suit. Attacked by the inelegant words of his wife. And he did not like _feeling_. He resented anything that pulled his emotions out of their locked labeled compartments. He resented anyone that made him feel common. Plebeians, the proletariat, with their _reality TV_ and their fast food and their barroom brawls, they had no emotional restraint. When Patrice called, he wondered if nature will out. He wondered if there was something genetic, a defect in his makeup, that he shared with black men all over the post-colonial world. He wondered if even with money and education if he was biologically inclined to abandon his family. He wondered if he was slavishly predisposed to desire a simple white cop over the cultured black princess he'd married. Then he wondered (meanly) if all these problems where more basic then that, if he chose to be _here_ and not _there_ because he'd married beneath himself. Not financially, he and Patrice had met in a world of cotillions, their betrothal had been foreshadowed (ridiculous as that was) in the black society pages. No, not unequal in wealth, in intellect.

He _had_ to believe he was _here_ and not _there_ because he craved someone equal in all things cerebral. He couldn't think about his DNA tonight. He couldn't do race relations alone in this dark apartment. He thought about Alexandra Eames. _**No money. Some forgettable education. She's as common as…** _He stopped himself short, there was no need to be crass about it. But she was smart, engagingly intelligent.

There was something about her, about the juxtaposition of plain and magnificent in that one small tight body.

He took a sip of his drink.

There was something about her.

* * *

"You never visit anymore."

"Ma I'm here twice a week."

"Really? You want to do the math or should I?"

Bobby wanted to roll his eyes, but for his mother the whites of his eyes were a signal to attack. The woman before him looked small and thin, but it was all a glamour. She was a sorcerer that dabbled in the black arts.

"Okay this week it was once." He admitted.

"And last week."

"And last week." He conceded.

"So one more time and it's a pattern." Her gaze was intense and her peaked brow razor sharp.

"No not a pattern a case." He said, "I'm Major Case now."

"Major Case, scmajor case, it's about priorities."

He tried to remind himself that she was living in a very small world, a world made even less clear by an intense prescribed psychotropic regime. He tried not to resent Frank for not sharing the burden of his mother's bottomless need for company and reassurance. But Bobby knew that his brother was about as grounded as his mother. He hadn't laid eyes on Frank in 7 years. They'd had talked on the phone a handful of times. Apparently he'd been to visit their mother twice, but Bobby only knew that from the tales she told. And he'd actually gone and verified it with the staff to make sure she wasn't having an episode.

He sat back in the on a soft aging chair in the empty lounge (save _her_) and loosened his tie. He undid 3 buttons. His family was more drama the he wanted tonight. His eyelids felt heavy and his suit felt tight and his bed felt like it was in another dimension.

"Ma I told you all about this. This isn't Narcotics anymore, this is big time stuff. High profile cases, Major Case it's about the mayor, it's about the governor, names you hear on the news."

She pursed her lips and he wondered (quite insecurely) if she was even the least bit proud of him. "Tell me about the partner. She hittin' the road too? I don't know what it is with you and these partners. I raised you and Frankie right. I practically nursed you on Carnegie. How can people not like you? Frank, my Frankie had charisma for miles. You," she shook her head "I guess you're your father's son."

It was a low blow, given who Walter Goren was: weak, unfocused, turned by any tail in a two mile radius. _**Does she really think I'm like him?**_ And that set the ball rolling. His mind was a mudslide gathering momentum and turf and earth and homes and villagers and the bric-a-brac of life as it tore down that mental mountainside. Nothing was safe, every part of him was undone by his thoughts, by her suggestion.

He wasn't Walter. He was likeable dammit. And he wasn't attached. He wasn't betraying a wife or a family. And he was still a relatively young man **_getting older every moment_** a voice taunted. Multiple relationships where the bailiwick of single youngish men. _**But you've gone too far,** _the voice was back. He couldn't deny it, he had been sowing his oats a lot lately. Five sexual partners in 5 months. He wondered at the uptick. **_Lighten up, it's a celebration, you're hitting your stride personally and professionally._** But no, it was more then that. He was horny, he was hooking up like the devil was at his heels. Bobby knew he'd been acting _unleashed_ since he'd gotten Major Case.

Worry creased his brow and tightened his lips.

Such was the power of Frances, with her wand and her little incantations. Such was the power of every mother really, and whether they wielded it for good or evil was the mark of their maturity.

When at last they shuffled back to her room, when at last she was tucked in, when _at last_ her PM dose arrived, he admitted relief because the side effect of that little cup of pills was drowsiness. Once she nodded off he could leave. He watched his mother shimmy deeper into the twin mattress. He watched her lids grow heavy. He planted a warm wet kiss on her brow and she smiled her lips spasming slightly at the touch. She let her hand grip his briefly, and she said "I love you" in a diminished way. And he knew this last 3 seconds was the reason he kept coming back. With her defences down, hovering between wake and sleep she always loved him.

* * *

Rather then running for his Mustang, he paused in the dull glow of the ward hallway. The lights had been lowered, the skeleton staff was on for the night. He checked his watch and then pulled out his cellphone. _**9pm isn't too late.**_

She picked up on the third ring.

"Eames." her voice was tight.

"Hi it's me." he said.

"Hey." He heard her relax a fraction or maybe it was what he wanted to hear.

"How are you doing tonight?" He asked sitting in a corner chair behind a leathery old potted palm.

"I've been better." She moved to the doorway of her mother's room. There was nowhere to run nowhere to escape the fluorescent tube lighting. Alex missed the nuance of her home with it's shadows and warm yellow cast. But at least here in the lounge she was alone.

"The shoot was clean…" He started.

"It's not about the shoot." She cut him off, well, it was about the shoot, but it was about so much more. "Family stuff." She said.

"I hear ya." And he really did. She sensed a kindred spirit in him and Alex felt comforted by his deep foreign voice in the middle of her difficult personal situation.

"You at home?" she asked.

"No with my mom. You?"

"With my mom." She laughed lightly. So did he. Then silence.

"I should let you go. I just wanted to make sure you were okay." He didn't want to hang up but what else could he say.

"Bobby." She fought a wobble in her voice. "I'm not okay."

And he heard it and he wished he was there with her, which was silly because she wouldn't want him with her.

"What can I do?" He asked at last.

"Just sit here and breathe with me for a while. Please."

He felt a tug in his chest at her perfect vulnerability. "Anything you want Eames."

And so they sat, in their respective lounges, phones to ears, calmed by the cadence of life.


	8. Chapter 8

**SEIZURE**

Certain things couldn't be unseen.

A bell could never be unrung.

It had been a normal briefing. The pictures were tacked to the cork board. And they were all in that grey glass box of collaboration, him and her and Deakins. They were laying out the particulars of their newest case. The death of an unknown brunette in a seedy motel room (Rosa Dern as it would turn out). So far all they had were crime scene photos.

On it's face not your typical Major Case. Not until it became clear that this murder had an eerie similarity to an old serial. It had all the particulars of a crime someone had already been convicted for, stuff that had never made it to press. That was the worst case scenario for law enforcement and for prosecution: a mistake. A mistake that had managed to worm it's way through all the layers of justice missing check after check, balance after balance.

But that wasn't the bell, the one Goren wished he could unring.

The bell that kept seizing his ears like a case of tinnitus had come when Carver had barrelled in. Carver in his perfectly tailored suit and his 'just the facts' demeanour.

"How close a match is it to the other killings?" The lawyer demanded. And Goren watched his partner, 'one of the guys' Alex Eames, reach out - and this was totally inexplicable - give Carver what he could only described as a caress. It couldn't be construed as anything but a caress. Bobby had tried to reframe it in a million ways: as a 'pardon me' pat, as a generic greeting, as a 'oops, so sorry I didn't see you there.' None seemed to fit. The touch had been friendly, it had lingered and her small hand had slid from Carver's shoulder all the way down to his elbow. That was trans-Atlantic flight of touches!

Goren's eyes darted back and forth. He really wanted to ask her. No, not ask _demand_ to know what was going on.

He smartly held his tongue.

Mixed in with his incredulity there was also a hint of confusion. He'd thought… He'd thought they were building toward something, him and Eames. That last case they had been closer then ever. He knew he hadn't imagined all those little innocent flirtations. He definitely hadn't imagined that she had become his ambassador. A liaison for him and his quirks, the interface between Goren and the normal people.

"Don't mind my partner," she'd said smoothly. "He gets cranky when he doesn't get his sleep."

And Goren did a double take at that and something in him swelled, because **_that's me! She's talking about me!_**

_And their timing!_ it was like Laurel and Hardy, like Frick and Frack, like Abbott and Costello. That Judge, Blakemore, he'd reddened and pursed his patrician lips because he couldn't even muster words in the face of such a damning duo:

**_"We heard that you're up for a seat in the appellate court." Goren primed the pump._**

**_"That's right." The judge's clipped speech spoke volumes._**

**_"The fact that you're being considered is a tribute to you as jurist and a legal scholar." Goren needled with adoration._**

**_"Yes I suppose so."_**

**_"You went to Yale?"_**

**_"Yale and Columbia I graduated from both."_**

**_"You were law review?"_**

**_"No"_**

**_Eames chimed in ratcheting up the discomfort. "Or that other award they give to the top 10% of the class. Order of the Coif?"_**

**_"No."_**

**_"That's because you had a 2.0 average." Eames closed the net. The air was dense with the weight of the man's inadequacies. "What do they call that?" She lobbed a softball to her partner._**

**_"Ah, Gentleman's C's. Isn't that it?"_**

**_"If you're here to denigrate my clients record…" The lawyer broke into their little routine._**

**_"We like his record, we like the fact that he's a late bloomer." And if it this were the b-ball court they would have high fived._**

They were so literate and so witty together. Goren was ecstatic. For the first time in his professional life there was repartee. For the first he was happily sharing the duties of the takedown. Even better they had executed a coordinated strike with minimal strategic planning.

Because she was sharp.

_Almost_ as sharp as he was (of course he was full of himself and with sound cause).

In fact he was happy enough and secure enough to admit she was sharper then him in many ways, because her knowledge was coated in humour, and that humour made her far more palatable to people. Goren knew something else now too (he _knew_ it in the flora of his gut) Alex wasn't going to leave him. The partnership was secure.

They were _finally_ clicking.

But this?

This disturbing insight into her personal life, he didn't know what to do with this.

_**Carver?**_

Goren wracked his mind. Had he known? He must have known. And suddenly he saw it in a series of brief intense flashes. Eames taking late lunches, Eames and her disappearing acts, Eames looking breathless, Eames looking mildly disheveled, looking… **_la la la la la la la la la_**… he didn't want to know this. That day 'the day of the touch' became day zero. The day the veil lifted from his eyes. And everyday thereafter his addiction was watching. He couldn't stop watching Eames and Carver for clues. His eagle eyes trained on them. His bizarre glassy gaze tracking back and forth. His off-putting head tilt firmly in place. His sheer absorption marked the lawyer and the petite cop as more then just a passing interest.

_**They're laughing together at the water cooler.**_

_**Look, he brought her coffee.**_

_**She's taking his side.**_

_**Her feet are angled toward him under the table.**_

Every intersection between the pair was assessed by Goren for both the case and for the subtext. Which was hard work. In fact it was driving him crazy.

While all this was going on, for his own sanity, he decided firmly on 'Eames'. He was definitely going to go with Eames (the name) because suddenly he wanted distance. Alex didn't seem right, at least not for a man and a woman. For some reason it was now very _very_ important to kill any speculation about them. It was very very important to get at least a names length away from her.

He wondered endlessly about her. Of course he'd wondered before 'the touch' too. _Before_ 'the touch' he'd thought he was borderline, but now he'd lost it, now he'd officially hopped the barbed wire fence and was bobbing and weaving through a minefield of speculation.

Who the hell was she? This woman he spent 12 hours a day with? Was Carver the type of man she wanted? Did she like that polish? Did she like a strict exacting personality? Did she like men of colour exclusively? No of course not. She'd been married to a cop, a white cop. **_Ohhhh, so she's a serial office dater._** But that was the pot calling the kettle, because so was he, so were they all. This job didn't leave much room for socializing. Goren felt like there was a hole. A missing irregular shape in his knowledge of Alexandra Eames. She was a mystery and mysteries were his catnip.

"Hot date?" He threw out softly. It was quitting time, and she was gathering up her coat and bags with a flurry as though someone were chasing her.

She stopped looked up briefly and smiled. "Yeah, _really hot_." Her voice had a sultry glide he couldn't miss.

"Oh, uh, oh." He stuttered out, and gathered his own desktop clutter, suddenly not sure where to take his casual (not so casual) interest. _**Really hot?**_ He was sorry he'd asked.

"I'm escorting my dad to the Police Retirees Charity Fundraiser. A room full of men over 65, and the odd broad, really get me going."

He laughed hard and the tension fell right out of him. He hooted at her irreverence, at her appeal, at the racy lesbian associations. _**Down boy.**_

"Well have a good time." He offered. "Maybe there's a sugar daddy in it for you." _**Phew no Carver.**_

She gave him a look and her voice reeked of sarcasm. "Sure one with a great big city pension. See ya tomorrow."

He got to thinking after she'd left, about how she loved her father and how much that loyalty mattered to him. And then more inappropriately, about her small lithe body in some plunging black evening wear. He gave himself a mental slap. All of these thoughts were very bad. They felt like so many shades of wrong.

**_She's your partner for God's sake._**

But Robert Goren was a man of thought. And when questions arose very few of them were ever mild, or modest, or non-confrontational. And so with a few more facts in place he started to build a profile. No, not a profile (too stark) a portrait.

A portrait of Alexandra Eames.

* * *

"_Jesus Bobby_." He kind of loved it when she said those words, with that Eamesian ring of exasperation. Only her voice could hit that particular level of annoyance and it was in a pitch that only he could hear kind of like a dog whistle. "You couldn't figure out a less slasher movie way to get the point across. We all about lost our lunches."

He leaned casually against the counter of the MCS kitchenette and cradled his throbbing hand. She was right he'd gone too far, the pain was a reminder of that.

"Let me see." She demanded, tenderly annoyed. And she grabbed his hand with maybe a little too much energy.

"Ow." he grimaced "Ow."

"Serves you right." And he could tell she meant it because she didn't soften one iota. This wasn't going to be a Florence Nightingale moment. But still, he stopped breathing just a little as she held his palm in hers. Then she examined the open wound with mild disgust, like one might a canker or a problem. Then she dropped it without ceremony as if to silently proclaim **_you'll live_**. "You can't do crap like that."

"Sorry." His lips twitched. "I was in the zone."

"Yeah? Well remind me to watch you don't get in the zone when you're driving or holding a gun."

"Driving? What's driving?" He shot back.

"You're so God damned funny aren't you." She shook her head and moved to the coffee pot "partner's a comedian." He thought he heard her mumble as she poured herself a cup a joe.

"My mother thinks so." He said in jest. And her shoulders tightened and rose a fraction because she knew his secret now, a big one.

"Don't worry." he caught her discomfort. "Though it may not always seem that way," He rapped on his head then on his chest, "sound mind and sound body."

"I wasn't worried." She shot back a little irritated that she'd flinched, so his mother was a schizophrenic, so what.

"Look she's in an institution, I call her everyday. I visit like a good son should. I make sure all is right in her malfunctioning universe. It works for us." He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile. All he ended up doing was showcasing his new straight, pearly, even, grill.

"Okay, okay," She snarked "now tone it down I'm getting singed over here by your bioluminescent teeth."

"Bioluminescence could never singe you and it could never be a generated by the composite resin in these veneers. Bioluminescence is a pretty much relegated to bacteria, fungi…."

"Oh shut up Bill Nye." She gave him a disgusted look stirring her steaming mug absently and then she turned to go. She stopped just before the door, and turned back, and added almost shyly. "I like your new smile. It's great. Really great."

He actually blushed.


	9. Chapter 9

**BADGE**

"Which means he was tipped off Tuesday or Wednesday morning."

"Which means the leak is coming from somewhere in this building." Goren said, pulling up a chair beside his partner. They were finding that Randolph their suspect had long arms, she was always one step ahead, pulling favours high and low throughout the department to cover her tracks.

"I checked who the requisition went to in the Chief of Detectives office, besides of course the Chief of Detectives." Eames continued.

"Well I can vouch for his assistant." Goren said quietly though it was the last thing he wanted to cop to.

"Denise? You dog!" Her tone was outrageously chipper and Alex barely spared him another thought before picking up the phone and moving on. "Yeah I'd like to check on requisition number…."

This was how they communicated. He watched her on the phone. Her thin shiny lips moving quickly, her skin pale against the black handset. This was how he told her he was dating. More then dating. Denise had been in his apartment on Tuesday and Wednesday morning, they had woken up together after a night of intense sex. He had screwed her like he was trying to screw the demons out. He didn't have any problems getting it up for Denise, with her tight little ass and that _mouth_, she was willing to put it anywhere. But Denise was getting attached. And he wasn't. It was almost time to cut and run.

_**Don't shit where you eat.**_

A less then delicate way of saying office affairs never went down well. At least he was separated from Denise by a few layers of bureaucracy but what about Eames? _**Carver!**_ That was dangerous. That was everyday. _He was married._ What in the fuck was she thinking? Goren was dying to know. He waited for her to reciprocate. He waited for her to maybe give him a clue that she had ended it with Carver. He waited for her to slip it into casual conversation as was their way.

He waited.

And he waited.

And he waited.

* * *

"My partner's a miser and I'm frugal and neither of us could afford a house with a mortgage and two kids in private school…" Bobby shot at out in his hammy Canarsie cadence. Again Alex stood back and watched him go from the doorway, this doorway was to the kitchen of a single family home in Brooklyn Heights. On the sofa sat their suspect and her mother. the latter looked frail and shell shocked, the former looked tense and scrappy.

"You're not that frugal." Randolph finally burst out gesturing with anger. "You buy nice clothes, pay full price, nothing in your size is ever on sale. You buy good quality accessories like that leather case. You're not married so you spend money on dates. You like good food, you have someone in to clean your apartment every week. You're smart, you have lots of interests and hobbies and you spend a fortune on them. I don't wonder that you don't have money for a house, I wonder how you make subway fare the way you spend money."

_**BAM!**_ Alex thought,_** Profiler profiled.**_

_And how!_

Despite the fact that Terry Randolph was a murderer, Alex felt her stomach do a happy dance. She knew it was horrible to feel such joy at Bobby's takedown - she was after all still on the side of right and good and rule of law. But as she watched Bobby's act falter, his brow drop and his face take on that 'just slapped' look, Alex felt like singing an impromptu aria.

Suddenly his regular soft reedy tone was back, all of his artifice was gone. "Uh… a… that's very good Randolph. But you didn't answer my question." He fell to one knee and went for the cheap shot, the fretful older woman. "How can she afford private school? Where does the money come from?"

This whole trip to the Cluster Sargeant's home was a rig, a game, a racket. They were here to put her on edge and plant a little misinformation in her ear. But first came the Goren show in full effect. Only, Alex thought, this time maybe he'd laid it on a little too thick because Terry Randolph had the chops. She had been repeatedly denied the detective promotion before leaving for the school security division. So was it any wonder that the big, bold, clownish portion of Goren's shtick had been quickly unravelled under the shrewd eye of a cop turned criminal?

Maybe, Alex thought, Randolph might not have gone down that dark lawless road if she hadn't been a woman struggling to make it in a man's world. They were here to bring Randolph down Alex was good with that, but maybe this would also bring Bobby down just a few precious notches.

Alex couldn't help but think he needed it.

A little comeuppance.

And moreover she'd needed to see it happen.

Alex had needed to see Bobby in all the ways she had over this last 11 months of hard graft - as sharp, as cocky, as belligerent, as absurd but also as kind, as generous, as caring, as thoughtful. She'd needed to see 360 degrees of Robert Goren. She'd needed it, so that she could tear up her new partner request (which oddly had still been sitting in Deakins' 'to do' pile). The fight was over. They were in this together now.

It was time to see where this Goren and Eames thing could really go.

* * *

**_Season 1 finis_**


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks for reading. I feared it would be hard to write over the holiday season and I was right. Parties and travel and distractions oh my. I hope the quality doesn't suffer. As always I am enjoying your reviews. There were a few questions in them so I'll answer whether they were rhetorical or not. First, Carver and Eames, I'll use them as a plot device for as long as I need to. Sorry to those who dislike the pairing but it isn't my objective to make all of the characters likeable just layered. "Rampaging" someone took issue with it in relation to feminism. All I can say is that if the word sounded judgey it probably was, though not intentionally. I can't promise impartiality. I'm not a journalist everything I write is proudly biased. And yes, to someone else, I am going to keep writing for as long as I have the stamina, hopefully it takes me to season 10.**

* * *

**Season 2**

**ANTI-THESIS**

This wasn't like the 23 odd other cases they'd worked together.

It was a good thing Alex had withdrawn her request because this debacle at Hudson University might have spooked her into running it through.

Two words: creepy, blonde.

Alex watched Bobby and Elizabeth move around each other in disgusting mating ritual. Phase one: fascination.

**_Okay relax he's just lulling her, he's reeling her in._**

In the last 12 and a half months Alex had unclenched around Goren. The quirks were even becoming less annoying, but this devious blonde had gotten her back (and everything else) right up. Maybe it took an impartial woman to see through another woman, because the moment she'd shaken hands with Elizabeth Hitchens, Alex had smelled the stink of manipulation. How glamorous she was, how cultured, _how cultivated. **It's all a dog and pony show.**_ Like the rich, Hitchens reeked of image and like the over-educated she oozed condescension. But there was something more. Alex squinted and tried to remember where she had seen it before.

Then she had it.

The alligator enclosure at the Bronx Zoo. That was where she'd seen the same dark shiny gaze perfectly mirroring humanity. That was how Alex saw this untenured visiting professor. There was nothing behind those eyes. The reptilian brain run amok.

In the livingroom of that highrise with a skyline that went on for miles Alex had tried to get into her partner's line of sight. She'd tried to grab Bobby's focus time and again, she'd tried to share their 'what a lot of bullshit' glance because they had loaded glances now, glances that contained complete conversations. She'd gotten goose egg for her efforts.

Her partner was intrigued, that was plain as day.

And since this was new territory and since Alex had never seen him fascinated by a perp before, she thought it best to broach the thing head on.

"You like her." She head butted him with her truth as Wallace's sublet receded in their rearview mirror. "Watch yourself."

He didn't say a word, he just sat there staring out the window.

"Did you hear me?" She demanded because timid, Alexandra Eames was not.

"I can handle myself." He barked.

"Yes you can. Just don't let yourself be handled."

* * *

It was the oddest thing. For some reason this woman made Alex feel like dishwater. This criminal had charisma. This criminal had a certain je ne sais quoi. Why was evil always so successful in it's presentation? In it's pursuits? **_Because it needs to coax the little children to eat the poisoned sweets, because it needs a host of starry eyed idiots to plant the bomb._**

Bobby was different on this case. He was distracted, he was preoccupied, he was riddling and puzzling his mensa guts out. He was back to old habits, running off again. Alex would turn to find he had wandered off in _her_ direction. Elizabeth Hitchens. His desertion fit like a familiar pair of woollen socks. Alex was _finally_ used to being an afterthought to her partner's passions. Bobby had never shielded her from the full scope of his personality. From day one he had been in full effect. Alex couldn't say the same was true for herself. This was their first case with complete reciprocal honesty.

"Bit old to be auditing a course aren't you." She walked the rope of intensity and humour so effortlessly. He had caught up with her in the 1PP cafeteria sitting on an orange plastic chair sipping a coffee.

"It was good. Hitchens likes to play. She likes to match wits."

"What did you get?" Alex demanded.

"She hates men."

"How do you figure?"

"Moby Dick is man's pursuit of his own potency." His lips twitched. "A valid assessment but somehow I don't think she meant humankind in the broader sense. She was digging at me at all of us unfortunate Y chromosomes."

"Get anything more relevant to the Dean's murder and less about her beautiful mind?" Alex's voice was laced with venom.

"She hates Mark Bailey even more. It's clear she has nothing but disdain for his weaknesses."

"Well he is the poster boy for insipid and she likes her men nice and exploitable." _**In fact s****_he'd _love a cop in her pocket.**_

He turned and zeroed in on her for the first time in days. He had _neglected_ her for days while selfishly relishing the hunt. He heard her unspoken meaning but like most with a strong IQ and a thready EQ he said exactly the wrong thing.

"Jealous?"

Alex felt red all over. "Jealous of what? Her face? Her mind? Her station?"

"I was thinking you were jealous of my fascination."

"Don't flatter yourself." She looked like she'd drunk some bad milk. "If that's where this is going, if you're romantically interested in a suspect, _this suspect,_ then you need your head checked. Maybe your mind and body _aren't_ all that sound." When she was vicious she was vicious. They would be finding little chunks of him scattered all over New York when she was through.

"Is that where this is going to go? Everytime I do something you don't like you're going to insinuate that I'm as crazy as my mother? That's beneath you."

"No this is beneath you." She gestured broadly. Then immediately lowered her voice and glanced around.

"What? Solving a case?" And his own faux innocence weighed heavy on him.

"Just remember you have a partner." It was an epic warning that would resonate with him long beyond that moment.

Their year of kid gloves and secret dissatisfaction was over. He'd told Deakins that they couldn't be candid, how he longed for those halcyon days! _**This is all part of it**_ he reminded himself. If he wanted her, he was going to have to take all of her. Including the part that made personal judgements, including the parts that tore him a new one.

He sighed deep and gusty, and then tried this novel honesty on for size. "Full disclosure. She's pretty. She's unbalanced. She's smart. That's what I think. That's all I think." He said looking straight into her eyes. "I'm not dumb or smitten enough to forget our objectives here."

Alex was surprised at how much his words stung.

_**What is it about them that stings?**_

She examined her own emotions very closely for the very first time, unbelievable as that was. For a year of partnership she had shunned any impulse to delve into Robert Goren's humanity. He was an aid, like a calculator or a search engine. But now the sheer volume of unleashed emotion threatened to swamp her. The door had been unbolted, and the barnyard animals were coming and going as they pleased.

_**Why the hell do I care?**_

For over 12 months she hadn't felt so much as a twinge at his behaviours. She knew of his dalliances at work. The grapevine had authenticated that he'd dated at least 4 women at 1PP. And Alex hadn't cared one iota. _**That's not true and you know it.**_ A voice floated up and smacked her down. Okay, okay, it had annoyed her, but in the way of a fly that won't stop circling your head because his conquests seemed perfectly chosen for maximum nuisance. Goren's ladies filled out bail paperwork, they fetched evidence, they answered the Chief of D's office line, they processed payroll in HR. His conquests were everywhere.

"Pretty, smart" Alex reamed off, "Sounds like a good foundation for you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You've gone a lot farther for a lot less." Her true feelings bled through. In Alex's opinion Denise Atkins, Bobby's latest fling, was a complete moron. Alex had butted heads with her many times. Denise was the gatekeeper of all the data in the CODs office, and she ran the place like a petty little fiefdom, revoking passwords and generating paper for no reason except to her inflate her importance. But still, Alex couldn't believe what she'd intimated. It was so out of bounds. It was so bitchy. It was the hallmark of too much emotional involvement. "I'm sorry." She apologized immediately. "Nothing you do off the job is any of my business. I'm sorry." She said again.

But he wasn't sorry. In fact it was the best thing she'd ever said to him. Instead of lashing out, he sat back like the cat that'd eaten the canary. She missed the look of supreme satisfaction that passed over his face. He was buoyed by an idea:

**_Alex cares._**

**_She really cares._**

* * *

"Nicole Wallace killed the real Elizabeth Hitchens, applied for a passport in her name and went off to Oxford."

"This woman's very very good." Goren pressed hands to his mouth. And Alex heard it in his tone, 2 parts horror and 1 part grudging admiration.

Deakins left them alone to strategize and Alex strode wordlessly into a one of the offices, her pace a little quicker her footfall heavier then need be. He followed.

"Tell me now." She demanded in their glass cubicle, "Are you going to take her down or ask her on a date?"

"Ask her on a…" He crowed spinning indelicately away. No spun, he was spun by the energy of her words, spun on some invisible axis.

"She's veeeeery very good." Alex mocked with a hint of lechery.

He guffawed.

"I heard it, and if I did then so did Deakins."

"This is a new side of you Eames." He sat on the edge of the metal table. "I think I like it."

She shook her head in annoyance. "This is the side that has your back. You know, your back? The thing that has gone uncovered for so long because you pissed off so many partners. But this," She gestured between them "_this bond_, is as important as getting the killers."

That made him pause.

Was he mistaking her duty and friendship for more? Eames had unwittingly hit _his_ weakness. She unwittingly uncovered the spot where Robert Goren had many a crisis of confidence. His own relationships. He wondered often if he had an attachment disorder. So consumed by the abstract problems of strangers, but thoroughly confused about the real, invested parties all around him. He blamed his father. Walter hadn't given him the gift of ease, or comfort, or a healthy masculine version intimacy. He hadn't given him anything that a man owed to his son. And because Bobby had picked up his lessons on the mean streets (and from his ire-filled, deranged mother) he was never at ease with his own emotion.

The rolling hills and valleys on his brow were making her seasick. Alex softened.

"Look, let's just get her. _Let's get her._"

He nodded.

* * *

The lights were dim in the squad room. Security lighting and desk lamps cast shadows over the piles of files and general clutter. Bobby leaned back in his chair as deep as he dared go without toppling over.

"She knows me." He muttered. He was tortured but for the first time he shared it. He looked up and into the eyes of someone who understood.

"She doesn't know you." Alex scoffed "She knows your social security number. Don't give her more power then she has." Alex went back to writing. Scribbling post case summaries inside white text boxes. The end was in sight. The case was still open, no definitive resolution, tons of supposition but with Bailey dead and no confession, well… It was the first case they hadn't closed.

She looked at her partner. He was staring at a filing cabinet, at a picture of La Joya's kid to be exact. The boy held in permanent 7 year old stasis by a smiley face magnet. The whole side of the cabinet was a mess of personal sentiment. It made the days go easier.

Alex immediately knew it was the failure, as much as the psycho, that had him this way.

"Where do you think she is?" He asked.

"In a hotel on 5th eating caviar."

He flipped to look at her, "Really?"

"Yeah. She won't run. And she won't compromise her standards. She's nothing but shit rolled in diamonds."

He laughed. His partner had a way with words. Then he sobered,

"She'll be back." He said, and unfortunately Alex agreed.

"She'll be back."


	11. Chapter 11

**BEST DEFENSE**

JoJo Martinez sat beside his lawyer in a sad grey room at Rikers. There were shades of Christ in his features, shades of the devil in his disposition and shades of an Andean herder in his woolen South American garb. The last was draped over his unfashionable orange prison jumpsuit.

_**Peru must be so proud.**_ Alex snarked silently.

"They're playing you. Gary Burke is dead." Martinez snapped at his lawyer.

"How do you know that?" Alex shot out.

"PNN - Prison News Network." JoJo sat back with the smarmy look of someone on higher ground.

"That's the same place we get our news from." Bobby chimed in. "One of their _reporters_ heard you a couple of weeks ago putting out a contract on Bonham."

"S- s- s screw that." The prisoner stuttered. "Why would I want to hurt that man?"

Goren turned to his partner and as he did his eye hung on Carver's arm. The lawyer's limb had ventured out and bridged the gap between his chair and Eames'. Eames who was sitting quietly_ over there_ beside the ADA instead of standing in solidarity (and rhetoric) with her partner. Robert Goren read bodies like books, that was an alpha move, that arm was territorial. Oh it was meant to seem innocuous, a perch for a weary limb but it had layers of meaning. Subliminally it showed protection, sympathy, attraction. And in the same instance Goren saw that Eames leaned in. She actually leaned in. **_What the hell was this? They were being sloppy. Were they getting serious?_** Goren (barely) managed to stay focused on JoJo the thug. Ever present in his mind, in his periphery, was Carver claiming mastery over Eames and her chair again and again and again.

"Because he's about to put you away for life." Eames got in the game." You're facing your third felony drug conviction."

And Carver backed her up like a partner, "Bonham told us he turned you down for a plea bargain."

Bobby roiled.

**_Do I even need to be here?_** He was starting to feel like a third wheel on his own case.

By the time JoJo had stomped off, their fingers (Carver's and Eames') rested inches apart on the table top. Goren's heart rate spiked and he knew that it had nothing to do with this criminal or this case.

He was grappling with the basest of human emotions.

He was jealous.

By the time the accused's lawyer left as well Goren was feeling hot and uncomfortable. He was nothing more then a big body without bounds. He immediately seized the high ground. He shunned the 3 empty chairs, planted his butt on the tabletop and gazed down on the couple. In psychological vernacular this was called peacocking: making himself bigger, unavoidable, obvious. And he hated that. He hated that he was doing it and hated even more that _he knew_ he was doing it. He was no better then any other jealous loser.

"It begs the question where is Mr. Martinez getting the money to pay for better representation." Carver asked looking up, _his arm still on her chair._

"Same place Gary Burke got his money?" Eames suggested blissfully unaware of the silent power play storming about her.

"Jojo's mom might know." Goren replied looking deeply, inscrutably into the pages of his portfolio.

He couldn't take much more of this crap.

* * *

And so it seemed ingenious and perfectly right that two days later Goren and Eames started their collusion. They sat at their desks and he sold her on the merit of excluding Carver from the rest of this case. This was about a corrupt ADA after all, a man with all of the rights and access of every ADA. They couldn't risk giving him their case through Carver or through the District Attorneys Office intranet. They needed to move together in secret. Bobby took great pleasure in convincing Eames to deceive her lover.

"Avoid him, it's the only way." He told her with schooled innocence. "Let Deakins do his briefings until we can bring ADA Bonham down." Goren fully intended for that takedown to take at least a week. A week of late nights and ordering in food with Eames. _A Carver free week._

Her brow furrowed.

He imagined her mentally cancelling their date for tonight (and many nights after). And he was struck by waves of pure pleasure. Goren knew he shouldn't be so fuckin' happy, but he was. A perfect storm. And so he took Alex by the hand and lead her away from Ronald Carver.

* * *

Carver swung in on the door frame surveying their little 1PP paper party. The detectives sat tucked into a table pouring over mounds of files. Ron hadn't seen Alex in a week. He was here under the guise of the Bonham case but really because he had the jones, the love jones. His lawyer personna looked expectantly at the detectives while primal man looked longingly at Alex.

But she was clipped and short and all about the case. Her professionalism hurt him.

"Martinez said he got $20,000 to arrange the hit on Peter Bonham, we just need to trace it to Linda Bonham." She gestured at all their open files.

"Just dotting all the i's." Goren added .

Carver's inclined ear heard a ring of smugness in those words. He looked from Goren to Eames then to Goren again and a wave of futility washed over him "Let me know what you come up with." He said then vanished into the squad room.

"How long are we keeping him in the dark?" Eames asked and the conflict was there in her eyes. Carver was twice as invested as usual in this case, which meant he was twice as aggressive in his phone calls and pop bys. It was stressful for her. Two worlds were colliding, work and sex were catching up in the worst way.

"As soon as we have an incontrovertible case against Peter Bonham. Starting with tracing the $20,000 back to him" Goren was a broken record out loud but inside he said things like: _**Suck on that Carver**_ and once (even more surprising)_** She's mine**_. It'd taken a glass of Glenlivet to wash that particular thought down, to reconcile his deep possessiveness with their platonic relationship.

Their conspiracy was delicious. Watching her snub Carver was delicious. It wasn't often that a device threw itself so cleanly in Goren's lap. It wasn't often that he played the wedge so legitimately.

Because he cared. Deeply.

He had her back.

Ronald Carver needed to go.

* * *

"We're all going for drinks, live a little," Bobby cajoled at quitting time. Partly because he wanted his eye on 'off hours' Eames, partly because they needed to become joiners. They both had lone wolf tendencies.

"Who all is going?" She tidied her desk.

"Stoke, Jeffries, Luftisa, Goldblat, Donovan and a few girls from HR."

She caught his eye. "Oh, now I see what's in it for you."

He lowered his head a little, she read it as bashful. But then gave her his softest look "Come on." he urged.

And she did, come on that was. She dragged her heels all the way down to the shiny marble lobby of 1PP and then 2 blocks over (by foot) to "Flannigans' a cop bar if ever there was one. The atmosphere was 'any weeknight' stuff. Low lighting, a jukebox cranking out retro tunes - the 80's mostly. A lot of guys whose butts probably hadn't fit on a barstool since the 80's, darts, pool and a thick crowd - standing room only.

"Let me buy you a drink." She felt Goren's hot breath on her cheek and it was an odd comfort. This was not her natural habitat.

"No. I'll give you some cash."

He shrugged. And she dug deep into her purse for some money and came up with a ten. "Get me a margarita."

He smirked.

"What? It has to be beer?" She stepped to him scrappily, "What I need a whiskey to be hard enough?"

"No, no." Goren smiled "Just let me see if this guy even knows what a margarita is." He turned and elbowed himself a spot at the bar.

Alex slowly looked around the room and the crew they came with waved her in. They sat at two '4 seaters' slapped haphazardly together. On one side was a long red pleather banquet the other side a line of chairs. _**Oh God**_ she groaned this was going to be tight. 8 seats for 10 people. All she wanted was a cup of tea, her couch and some footie pajamas. Being smushed up against Bobby's last administrative conquest was not her idea of a fun night out.

"Squeeze in here detective." Jeffries called from the booth side, _**small mercies**_ Alex thought. She actually liked Jefferies. She shimmied in. This was the truth about offices, but moreover about policing, it lived and died by camaraderie. Their Major hazing had never really ended, it probably never would. Rookies (which she and Bobby still were, as the last arrivals) couldn't just abruptly withdraw from interaction, they had to be joiners. They had to network. So Alex nestled in against her co-worker's thigh panning the throngs for Bobby.

"I hear you're in the bad books." Donovan launched in right away yelling a little over the noise.

Alex leaned in to show interest, then saw her partner on the periphery. Two drinks in hand with no seat, she supposed he could shimmy in on the end beside her, let his long legs hang into the aisle.

"Hey Bobby!" Susanna called trumping her, Alex glared, Susanna Voigt of HR fame. "I'll sit on your knee." The woman was obviously joking (and judging by the extra button she'd undone on her satin blouse) also not. Alex couldn't believe it when Bobby set her margarita down with only a cursory glance and turned to the auburn haired vixen.

"If the offer's good let's do it."

The whole table erupted and that started a round of banging and cat calling and urging until Alex watched that Human Resources slut stand, blush and then plop her ample derriere into the centre of her partner's lap. Accounts on that may have varied: on the size of Susanna's behind and her proclivity for the opposite sex. It was quite possible that the light was a little more unforgiving from Alex's place at the table.

They all watched Bobby adjust those lap dancing hips suggestively. _**Should we leave you perverts alone.** _Alex went on a tear inside her head. Until at last she couldn't bear another second of her own hostility. She turned sharply to Donovan.

"Bad books?" she picked up an old conversation.

"With Deakins."

"Oh yeah he'll get over it, we're already creating our next wave of enemies." She quipped. Everyone at this table knew the score. Bobby was a stone in the shoe of the brass. Their big victories came with big risks and even bigger fallout.

"How you doin' under there partner?" Alex asked with a very merry falsetto. Then she slammed back her drink, she was going to need a few more of these.

Susanna swiveled grinding on him. "He's just great." Her voice had layers of innuendo.

Everyone snickered because they all got it but Goldblat just had to cross the finish line. "Got wood Goren?" He asked to ruckus approval.

And that was how it went after hours, someone got blitzed, someone got punched and someone got laid. Emotions ran the gamut and in this world they were always on high.

"Get a room," Alex heckled just to keep up with the Joneses, even though she wanted to get a room, her bedroom far from this maddening crowd. Far from her horny partner. Far from her stinging jealousy.

Her cell rang.

She glanced down. Carver. **_Shit._**

If he wasn't currently public enemy number one she might have worked out some of this tension with him. Or maybe not. She hit the 'end' button because she was starting to see that Ron was a means to an end. She was using him. He was a crutch. A bad habit she was ready to break. Alex deliberately turned her body away from Bobby's inappropriate tableau and looked straight into Detective Chris Donovan's eyes. He wasn't half bad - tallish, blond, a bit thin but that certainly wasn't a deal breaker.

"Let's dance." she commanded.

He looked around. "No one else is dancing."

"Ya chicken?" Alex asked with a light in her eye and a suggestive twist of her lips, because he liked her and she knew it. She could feel Bobby's eyes on them. She spared him a glance and watched his jaw clench. Donovan took that challenge to his manhood and grabbed her hand. He lead her away. Alex gratefully put 5 tables and 17 drunks between her and Bobby then she curled onto her co-worker (maybe a little too close) but she was feeling reckless tonight.

Her partner was making her crazy.

* * *

A couple of hours later the floor was littered with peanut shells and fragile egos. Wives and boyfriends had started calling errant partners home. Pissed patrons paired off, pitching and lurching toward the door and the bar's population started to thin, save a handful of hardcores and regulars. Alex couldn't believe she was still here. She'd danced a bit, drank a bit and generally lost track of time and now she'd tucked herself into a tiny two seater in the corner and debated the luxury of taxi all the way to Queens.

"Hey there."

She looked up _way up_ into Bobby's eyes. "Oh. You're still here. Shouldn't you be in Susanna's pants right about now?" Too much drink. She was being loose with her words. "Sorry." She slurred a little. "Shouldn't have said that."

"Come on partner." He smiled down, "Let's share a cab."

"I'm fine here." She let her head rest against the faded doodle of a labia on a 'seen better days' wall.

"You can't sleep in the bar." Bobby thought she looked small and pretty there, her jacket shed, the strong thin slant of her shoulders glowing under a knockoff Tiffany ceiling lamp.

"I'm not gonna sleep in the bar." She screwed up her face but made no move.

"You are such a cheap drunk." He laughed filing that important knowledge away.

"I resent that. I'm five foot nothing and I drank 5 margaritas." She held up 5 diminutive fingers.

"What?!" Clearly Donovan had wanted to get lucky. He would kill that sonofabitch. Bobby took her arm and got her to her feet and out the door, piling on layers of autumn gear as they went. Outside in the unseasonable cold and bluster they stood shivering, tucked into the crook of several hundred glowing office buildings that truly never slept. He flagged a cab on that street and once they settled into the vehicle her phone rang.

Carver, again.

This time Bobby saw.

This time, in the tight midnight hue of the backseat it was impossible to hide the neon green box screaming the ADA's name.

"Carver." he said.

"Carver." she repeated.

"Bit late for case talk." His sharp tone belied the dull warmth of his body an inch away.

She shrugged and let her head fall back. In the moonlight he tracked the sweep of her pale exposed neck.

"You haven't told him about Bonham?"

"I said I wouldn't. I don't sabotage cases." Alex had all but quit Ronald Carver, save two booty calls in the last two months. She didn't have any lingering emotion, but still it was hard to deliberately keep him out of the loop.

All of her private considerations must have played cryptically across her eyes because when she finally looked at Bobby he wasn't leaning back, he wasn't mirroring her easy late night stuporous pose, he was _so invested_. He looked like he was trying to pry back her skull with a mental retractor. He looked like he was trying to delve into her mind.

She looked at him with quizzical eyes. There was no way Bobby suspected, she told herself. She and Ron had covered. They'd barely been within touching distance ever.

His next words let her know how wrong she was.

"You have to quit him." Bobby said abruptly. And all of the air rushed out of the cabin with a hiss.

"Pardon me?"

"You heard me."

"I can't believe what I heard."

"Well let me spell it out." The double scotch neat and 3 beers he'd had were making him just as loose with his words. Maybe too loose for such a delicate conversation. "You have to stop fuck-ing Carver." He annunciated.

**_Holy shit._ **Alex was reeling. She pulled up straight, the haze gone, her mouth slack.

"Maybe you need to mind your own _fuck-ing_ business." She mimicked him in tone and intensity her cheeks went flush and it wasn't from the margaritas. There wasn't a margarita in the world that could make her head whirl this way.

"You are my business." his voice was brash and unrepentant.

"Did you hear me say a word when you were screwing around with Denise? Hickey's above the collar? Really Goren? Or what about tonight? Letting Susanna ride you like something at the carnival?"

"So you noticed." His eyes narrowed on her. "I wondered if you'd noticed."

"I have more class then to call you out." She hit low.

"Yeah well Carver is in our faces at least 4 days a week. I can't deal with that much sexual tension in one room anymore. Figure out your loyalties!"

Alex felt like she'd been transported to another dimension. The one with a crazed jealous Goren, who wasn't her work partner at all, suddenly he was her boyfriend or her husband.

"Figure out yours!" She shot. "You think you can bang any skirt that casts a shadow over our desks and then call me out for easing my ache!" Wow. This was getting dirty. This was going somewhere that was over 13 months in the making.

"Are you working your way through the office alphabet? Donovan? Really? Cs are done so tonight it's onto Ds. I guess I won't have to wait too long…" He bit out and immediately regretted what he'd just revealed.

"Wait? Ha! What a joke." She lampooned him "You're too busy to _wait_ for me. You have a new lay for every day of the week."

And it was that simple phrase that cast the light of realization cast over her.

No wonder she'd wanted to escape him.

Almost from the moment she'd met him she had been clawing and scratching and pushing him away.

Alex wasn't used to being so obtuse about her own feelings. But she had feelings. _Did she ever._ There was no mistaking _that_ now and he definitely had feelings too.

"If you'd said something, showed even the slightest interest maybe I wouldn't have..." He fired out. "But you were too busy on your knees for Carver, weren't you?"

They both sat back at angles to each other, panting like they'd run a marathon.

The staring took on ridiculous proportions. The staring carried them through six Bollywood ballads and 25 miles.

"We shouldn't be doing this." She said at last, the whites of his eyes flickered like a Super 8 with each passing street light.

"What coming clean?"

"No, going out together." **_Ever again._**

"Scared?" He taunted. "You've tried mean, you've tried to get away, you tried to butch it up" He parted and clipped a section of her short hair between two long fingers, this was the shortest her hair had ever been "and I still want you." His fingers on her scalp were heavy and warm. She almost purred with the simple pleasure of being touched by him.

It was all so honest.

So intimate.

She wanted to stay. She wanted to flee. But she drew the line at doing a tuck and roll on the interstate. So instead she pulled away and made her face as hard as that asphalt.

He seized her hand in his, he need to touch her. "That's it," he mocked softly, "Game face on, that's how you do it in the bullpen, don't let the brass see it."

"What?"

"How much we want each other." He said.

"How much you want me you mean." It was a vicious hail mary, a hope in hell that she could stop what was happening here.

He leaned in.

He smelled like alcohol. So did she.

**_Oh God, he's going to kiss me._ **She couldn't fake indifference in a kiss.

But he didn't. Instead he touched her hair again. This time tucking a short errant lock behind her ear smoothing, caressing.

"Nice try." He was completely unphased by her cruelty. He got her game, especially tonight when her tricks were so booze laced and facile.

They sat for so long in that simple pose.

Until their cheeks collapsed wearily against the seat.

Until his hand felt as though it had grown fixed to her head.

Their eyes locked.

Their bodies curved toward.

Their knees rubbed.

Their mouths sighed.

It was so simple, it was so complicated.

They rolled to a stop in front of her apartment door.

He moved closer. His breath was hot on her lips. He whispered "When you're done with him, we'll both get what we want."

And then he let her go.


	12. Chapter 12

Bonham's day of reckoning arrived and too swiftly by Bobby's calculation.

Just when he and Alex had made a breakthrough, when he could almost taste her it was time to reintroduce the competition.

And so Goren, Eames, ADA Bonham and Carver found themselves all packed into an office. It felt like a Beetle full of clowns - too tight, too many 'costumes'. Goren was pacing like a panther. He was ready to reveal all. Ready for the takedown.

"Well you showed her didn't you." Goren taunted Bonham. Yes the big cop taunted but he also watched, he watched Carver squirm uncomfortably, cross and uncross his legs as realization dawned as his underling was shown for the insecure, weasley, half-man he was. And Goren relished. Zeroed in as the scales fell from Caver's eyes. He watched emotion twitch in the man's brow, cheeks, mouth. He watched the lawyer silently question his own powers of observation, he watched the lawyer count the ways in which his own ignorance made him culpable in Bonham's crime.

Then it came, the look Goren had waited for a sharp slice of the head in his direction.

Ronald Carver new exactly who had conducted this takedown. Goren was the one with all the 'tricks' after all. Bobby felt pleasure shoot through him like an intravenous drug. If it was a flaw of character to rejoice at another's distress then he was an unrepentantly imperfect man. Goren met Carver's gaze and didn't waver.

"Peter Bonham you're under arrest." Alex came in smoothly with the bracelets.

And Ron looked from one cop to the other seeing himself now as the fool so vividly. And in the big detective he read the subtext of this take down, her name was Alexandra Eames. Goren had a thing for Eames.

**_Well played. I'd never have guessed, about any of it._**

"How long had you suspected?" Carver asked the detectives once Bonham had been led away.

"Only a few days we couldn't take the risk of him finding out." Goren explained playing fast and loose with the truth.

"Please no explanations," Carver's voice seared. "First I've got to deal with Peter Bonham. But _I will_ get back to you detective." The odour of flesh hung heavy in that office.

The lines were drawn that day.

Carver cast a betrayed look at Eames and then fell in behind his disgrace ADA.

"He'll get over it," Alex quipped easily, "Just like Peter Bonham."

Goren wasn't so sure.


	13. Chapter 13

**THE PILGRIM**

The weather turned. It went from hot greens to cool reds, oranges and yellows. Nature's paradox. A paradox deepened by the understanding that this leafy vibrant vision of loveliness came only in the throes of death. Soon the fruit fell away and the whole city seemed greyer, darker, foreboding somehow. Wondering. Waiting. For what? That remained unclear. This year the seasonal cycles offered no reassurance. The colour left every year didn't it? Everything always cooled. This year it felt like a harbinger. Even the old oaks of Central Park prayed, great brown sticks reaching for heaven. There was an edge to this Autumn.

The political climate changed too. The world was a powder keg and their city - iconic, dense, diverse - seemed an irresistible bullseye. Bobby and Alex lost track of themselves, their personal dramas, their meals, their homes, their beds, even their hygiene - judging from unsightly translucent rings beneath the arms of their white button ups. This case was just too important. 10, 15, 18 hour days, lying fetally on cramped cots in the barracks of 1PP, trying desperately to crest that peak into the land of nod but to no avail. They would all sleep when they were dead.

It started with the disappearance of Leslie Dornan, then it went cyber with a modern match making tool and soon like a pyroclastic cloud it had swept menacingly across jurisdictional lines and infiltrated all layers of government. This case was a matter of national security. There were no shortage of big questions or big considerations during the two weeks leading up to Veteran's day that year in New York City.

Everything was white noise to these detectives. Everything was a distant second in favour of the grander themes of humanity: life and death and justice (of course) but also the relationship between everyday people and God.

Alex watched Bobby with unrestrained interest. Like the leaves he was suddenly technicolour. After the taxi, after their night of honesty he looked different. Everything was different. Things were changing inside her. She fought them but she understood the scope of her own femininity. She was softening, she was listing toward him, she was unaccountably interested in everything he had to say. She was falling. And worse she felt every sweet second of that free fall and didn't give a shit about the looming pavement below.

She caught his eye over Deakins and he caught hers and they held a long illicit gaze.

Then later at their desks;

"Stop staring at me!" She said exasperated not even looking up from her work. His gaze was that hot.

"How do you know I'm staring at you?" He countered with hushed sass.

"I can feel you."

"I'd like to feel you." _Oh, the layers of innuendo!_ But not explicit, never explicit.

"Bobby!" She chastised her voice a strained whisper.

"Your eyes." He said, "I meant your eyes."

And she gave him what he wanted. She let her amber orbs sweep over his curly hair and down to the hollows of his cheeks, she traced his cupid's bow and then full sweep of his lower lip. She panned over the stubbled granite of his chin and down the column of his neck. She let her head flow from left to right to encompass the breadth of his shoulders and then stopped in the centre of his chest. She tried not to imagine him bare and failed. In her minds eye he was, hard, gritty but also pulsing and warm. She winced when the cold slap of the desk prevented her from seeing more.

"Did you feel it?" She asked then cheekily meeting his chocolate stare. This was more daring then she'd ever been with him.

"Yeah, I felt it." And there was a new hoarseness in his voice. "Eyes above the table." he quipped rawly.

And she understood.

* * *

The case. For the first time Alex realized exactly how screwed they would all be without Goren. He was an endless font of knowledge. She would never _tell him_ that mind you, she would never contribute to the expansion of that head. He knew he was good. But even he probably didn't realize how good. This case was like a love letter from Deakins. When it morphed from a simple murder into a terrorist plot it became clear that Goren and Eames were his first stringers.

"The feds and the joint task force are going to be all over this." Deakins warned.

"You're not suggesting that we bow out?" Goren reeked of disbelief.

"Hell no. We got a suspected homicide to clear." Unspoken was _**you go out there and kick some ass.**_

So they did. As always Alex moved and rolled in tandem with Bobby. They were the grease and axle of a massive machine when they had a mission. But sometimes, _sometimes_ his unique pockets of literacy were just so relevant_ and so vital_, that she stood back proudly and let him go and go and go. She let him take centre stage, without envy or fear because she was learning that Bobby always came back to her. She was learning that his insights had no value unless he could look into her eyes and see them validated.

She always gave him what he needed.

And he always made her feel powerful.

It was better then sex.

Almost.

Alex supposed Ron was right. Bobby was esoteric and she was perspicuous and that was exactly why they were on fire.

The things Alex learned, saw, felt 'that time they saved New York' (as they casually referred to the Edwards case ever after) would help solidify her feelings about Bobby forever.

XxXxXxXxXxX

"Go ahead impress me."

"It's Aramaic, the language that Christ spoke in and parts of the old testament were written in it, but don't ask me what it means." He grabbed the coat rack and casually tilted it out from the wall, gesturing a small framed work, "This is Aramaic too."

XxXxXxXxXxX

Eames cued up a Singular Singles pitch video, "This is the boyfriend Ali El Javad." They watched a clean cut young middle eastern man fill the screen.

"Uh he's not Moroccan. When Moroccans speak english they sound French I'd put this guy further east." Goren tossed off hand.

"How about we put him in this seat." Came the sweet reductive tones of Jimmy Deakins.

XxXxXxXxXxX

"What's this?"

"It's the Smithsonian article on the new library in Alexandria. When Edwards mentioned smoke detectors it didn't ring a bell."

"You actually read this when it came out." She interjected incredulously.

"The magazine is the perfect size for my treadmill. There's nothing in here about smoke detectors. Since there's no reason Edwards would mention a detail like that…"

"He's been to Egypt in the last year." She picked up what he was putting down.

"The state department would know." He grabbed the phone victoriously.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Goren flipped out his ready switchblade and fished a small toxic ball from the seam of the wooden table. "Uh this is not good. It's rat poison. Rat poison is an anticoagulant. Suicide bombers in Israel they use them to mix with shrapnel when making bombs, the idea is when their victims are wounded they bleed to death."

XxXxXxXxXxX

"You know, I read the Quran a long time ago when I was in the Army. I was stationed in Germany and there was this girl who lived near the base, she was Turkish, she was Muslim, I wanted to impress her. And yo- you know it really isn't what you'd expect. They recognize the right for women to vote to own and inherit property to divorce their husbands and this was what? Written 1300 years ago." Goren held the room spellbound, specifically a stoic federal agent who hadn't given a New York City cop much credit.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Alex tried to put all of it in perspective, their tipsy conversation in the back of that cab, their growing closeness her newfound appreciation for him but there was no distance, no long view to take, they were there day after day pressed up close to one another and every move was riveting.

His hands were graceful and his long fingers flexed and folded.

She watched his mouth for those puffs of profundity and she would feel her breath catch and quicken.

It was too late to turn back now.

* * *

Bobby was spellbound.

He was obsessed with Eames. _Alex._ Eames.

She was right there with him, as focused as he'd ever seen her. And she was… she was... beautiful. She looked fit and fine and… She was different. He was fixated, he was a born obsessive. He wondered (he hoped) her changes, embracing femininity was a consequence of no more Ron. A consequence of wanting him. Maybe she was feeling liberated, marketable, lighter. Eames was doing all the little things women did to bring on fresh attention, touchable hair and exposed flesh. Bring on the tank tops. Bobby had almost gone to Deakins and requested one of those comical courses for the whole 11th floor on appropriate work attire. His eyes kept hanging on the weight of her breasts outlined in cotton.

He didn't think she was seeing Carver. He didn't think that this was Carver's revenge. But imagine if it was. To flaunt her to drive him crazy. No. That was crazy. Eames could never be so easily manipulated. And Carver had been pretty scarce during this case, especially considering how high profile it was, no doubt he was nursing secret grudges. Alex played it close to the vest. She was an expert secret keeper. He couldn't know for sure what was happening between her and the ADA.

And Bobby had another problem. Every cogent thought was now hijacked by a single sentiment:**_ I want her._**

He shouldn't have said anything.

His words in the back of that taxi had unleashed hell and heaven.

He cursed own his tongue.

Every lean, every whisper… torture.

Eames whispered a lot. She stole into the interrogation room to feed ideas directly into his ear. Once she'd sidled up, let her lips brush the side of his face and whispered.

"Nice job."

It was all part of the mind game, the elaborate ruse that broke a suspect. She did it to break the perp. She almost broke her partner.

And he realized this woman just might be perfect for him because Eames just got it. All of it.

"I was sent by God!" Their misguided extremist yelled.

"So were we." She shot back without missing a beat and that's how it felt to Bobby. The way it all came together was divine. The way they clicked was blessed. This case exposed the best of them. It showcased them to each other, to the brass, the feds. It set a precedent in their partnership. Ever after they trusted each other professionally unequivocally, even when they didn't. It felt good. It was a heady kind of power to align with someone so precisely and to adopt a new motto: My partner right or wrong.

All of their residual doubts and holes and annoyances (were still there) masked from the world under a thick blanket of unity.

* * *

The door opened slowly on a wedge of light. Bobby saw her unmistakable silhouette.

"You grabbing some shut eye?" His disembodied voice floated up in the dark room.

"Bobby?" She closed the heavy metal door. "I thought you went home." She rested against the surface turning a flushed cheek for cool relief.

"No. I feel asleep in the AV room. There's a circle on my forehead right where it was resting against the jog dial."

Her laugh was light and tired.

"But of course now I can't sleep." He rumbled.

"That's how it goes." She couldn't think of anything better to say. "I'm going to head home then." She said. She had wanted to be alone, but also not. She'd thought the bunks would be the perfect solution.

"No." His refusal was sharp. "You're too tired. We can share the room." There was more then one bed after all.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I promise to behave." She heard the springs of his cot creak loudly. She wondered if he was just shifting or sitting. "Eames I will never do anything you don't want me to do."

But that wasn't it at all.

She wasn't worried about her virtue.

She just wanted to be alone with her emotions, with her turmoil. "I can.. I can't stay…" She whispered clutching the door handle suddenly as her left knee gave way.

His senses were heightened in the dark. He sprung up so fast that his head struck the metal cross bar with a tinny thud.

"Ow. Shit. Eames? Eames?" He asked trying to see her in the dark, so frustrated by his limitations.

"I _need_ to be alone." Again that wobble. It was an unmistakable sign of weakness that didn't jog at all with the woman he knew.

"What's wrong? Tell me. Did... Did he…"

"No, no... It's not about that..." She sniffled.

"What?"

"I.. I can't Bobby." She murmured low and soft and sad, so sad, unlike anything he'd ever heard.

He stood and moved in front of her and ran two big palms down those bare soft arms, the same ones he'd been coveting all day.

"Leave me alone Goren."

"No. Never." He was so strong in contrast. "Lie down with me."

"Get away from me." Some of her fight was back, she broke free of his grip.

"I'm not taking advantage." He cooed like a lullaby. "You're my friend. We're friends right? Finally?"

"Yeah."

"Then?" He steered her leaden feet over to the small bed.

"We can't do this here Bobby. Someone will come in and…"

"I locked it."

"You can't lock it." Her voice was husky. "That's worse then leaving it open."

"They can fuck off." He said so firmly in the dark, that it put her in mind of a taxi ride from not long ago.

"You have a foul mouth Goren."

"When the occasion warrants." He pushed her toward cot.

"No funny business." She shot out but it sounded like a swift wind could blow her over.

"None." It was a firm promise.

She climbed onto the low creaky thing thinking all the while that the NYPD could do better. They had $750,000 dollar paper budget yet they had detectives napping on a glorified bed roll laid over old springs. She immediately snatched up the only pillow and hugged it to her chest. Wondering what the hell she was doing.

Temporary insanity.

Today of all days she was entitled.

His big body came down and dipped the metal frame so low she feared it would give.

"We're gonna end up on the floor you oaf." Her words were muffled in her security pillow and he was glad to hear some spunk.

"Let me get this…" he ripped the pillow away on her squeal. "Out of the way."

"No touching!" She roared. "Stay on your side."

"Eames."

"Stay on your side. Stay on your side." she repeated like safe words again and again.

So he did. He left that old familiar inch between them and whispered. "What happened? Tell me."

"Family stuff." Her voice cracked.

"Tell me please."

"My," She whispered. "My mother died today."

"Oh God." And the tone of his voice was honest. She felt his shudder. As if that, losing a mother - his mother? her mother? - was the worse thing he could imagine. "Oh God Eames." He rushed out again "Let me take you home, let me take you to your family."

"It's, Itsokay." The words slurred with emotion. "I was there. I'm back because I need this. I need to be somewhere else."

And he felt his face heat, his eyes gloss and he was suddenly thankful for the for the secrecy of jet blackness. He was going to cry, actually cry in empathy, and in fear too maybe, because he'd always felt like his own mother was on borrowed time. He always felt that Frances Goren was so strong but she was also so vulnerable. To lose her...

"God Eames." He said again because there were no words really.

He thought of Alex taking it from life. Being asked to accept loss after loss and soldier on. Literally. Face blank, stance wide don't let them see you sweat. Everyday they were soldiers for the NYPD. Who would love her? Who would take care of her? Who would tell her not to go in today? Who would make her a hot meal? Who would hold her? _**Where the fuck are you Carver, huh? Where the fucking goddamn hell are you?**_ Bobby wanted someone to help bear the burden of her grief. He wanted help in that small dark bed. Then he shook it loose, the clawing hysteria, the ridiculous weakness and manned up.

There was only him.

He put his hands on her.

She pulled back.

He was undeterred.

"What are you do…"

"Eames this is a very bad day and I'm going to…" **_hold you_ **those words fell off the edge of a cliff as he pulled her in. She fit into the dent of his chest with yards to spare.

"Don't tell anyone." She whispered around tears. "Don't tell them I was such a mess."

"You only have one mother." His own voice broke. "Cry your heart out. No one will ever know." He pressed his lips to the top of her head, burrowing into her unbelievably soft hair. He found that night in the dark that the illusions were gone. She wasn't hard or tough or superwoman at all, she was the softest most supple little thing and his arms could have gone around her twice over.

* * *

They buried her mom on a Saturday. The crowd was large, Barbara Eames was much beloved. Alex stood stoically, feet planted firmly before a mound freshly turned earth. He was there behind her. At one point his large heavy palm curved round her sagging shoulder. She didn't cry. She already had.

They where honoured by the department that Monday. They walked up to the podium in their dress blues. They where adorned with matching citation bars, for Excellent Police Duty. Their chests boasted the green, the gold and the white. They posed for photos together. Between them an engraved plaque said: _For honour, for valour, for going above and beyond the call of duty._

A door closed.

A window opened.


	14. Chapter 14

Snow.

Glorious snow.

Fluttering down onto the tips of a noses.

Sheeting onto windshields like vicious cotton balls.

It kind of sucked when it snowed in the city. Maneuvering a big black bug down slick, shopper-clogged streets required more then finesse it required guts of steel. But Alex was up to the task because **_YAY! Snow!_**

She loved walking (driving, standing) in a winter wonderland. She loved the way the feathery white coating smoothed away the harsh edges and made everything so light and bright and _clean. _She loved that snow made fierce, clomping, prada-clad women with their smooth corporate up dos suddenly turn into ballerina's gliding gingerly on their toes with crystals glinting on their coats like stardust. She loved that snow transformed the street vendors' clapboard capitalist huts into ice oases, their awnings piled with white and strung with fairy lights.

Alex loved the breadth and width Park Avenue with it's strand of elms running straight up the centre median, each one ensleeved from tip to root in blue twinkle. She loved the historical facades of the old hotels facing The Park, each now roped in thick furry garlands of green, ruby red ribbon and heavy golden balls barely clinging for their weight. Maybe they were real gold. _**God knew they could afford it**_. She loved the brisk blizzard that blew through the promenade outside FAO Schwarz. It was a winter wind tunnel. Natives and tourists alike turned up their collars, slid on their gloves and went into battle, marching a thousand deep on a mission for the latest hot plush toy.

It was beautiful.

The chaos.

The choreography.

The avarice.

Her city was beautiful under a mantle of new fallen snow.

1PP found the spirit. A towering 20 foot pine sat in the vestibule. The lobby was strung with traditional silver and gold. And every hour on the hour the loudspeakers reinforced that design choice, floating down the resonant voice of Burl Ives.

11 storeys up there wasn't any music, but in the bullpen spirits were merrier then usual. A red mug peaked out from behind a stack of binders, a mini christmas tree adorned the top of a gun locker, a santa hat sat proud on a once humbug head. Donovan, Detective Chris Donovan, was clearly a Christmas-phile with his snow globe and a silver garland taped to the perimetre of his desk. Alex couldn't resist a comment.

"I like your spirit." She marched up and told him fingering the shimmering pom poms.

"I haven't even put out the pièce de résistance." He smiled and magicked a beer stein full of mini candy canes from beneath his desk. "Go ahead have one. I know you want to."

She laughed. He was fun. He was totally wrong for her in every way. But she couldn't deny he was fun.

"You're right I do." She unwrapped the little striped confection and popped the tail into her mouth, letting the crook hang out and scrape her chin. It was the sugar, she'd always had a sweet tooth.

"Plans over the season?" He asked.

"Well fingers crossed we don't catch one." She and Bobby had been caseless for 3 days now. With Christmas still 7 days away it seemed like a pipe dream but one could always hope.

"Are you going to the party?" The annual One Police Plaza fete would be held at the Chromium Banquet Hall at the top of Seaforth Tower. This was the first year that the organizing committee had voted to have it off-site, they said it was due to a space conflict in the conference hall on the mezzanine. The whole thing, the prospect of a party, _a real ball_, was the source of great twitters of excitement especially in administrative circles. The Chromium was uncharacteristically upmarket for the NYPD. Alex had never heard so much talk about a Christmas party in her life, let alone an office Christmas party.

"Yeah, that's the plan. Can't say no to the Chromium can we?" She rolled her eyes for good measure, so he knew she wasn't a bimbo who's life was governed by the promise of an evening out.

"So. You have a date?" He kind of mumbled it into his daytimer giving her a view of the blond whorl of his crown and the rouge of his scalp. Which Alex thought was sweet, his head was blushing, his voice was so nervous. She considered his loaded question. It was totally unacceptable to date a detective. Dancing after a long day (while tipsy) was one thing, this was another entirely.

"No I was thinking I'd go solo." She looked over her shoulder to see who was watching.

Bobby, that's who.

His gaze was hot on her back. And it spurred her on, it pushed her closer to this slightly goofy blond Detective, because Bobby (or rather her _constant_ awareness of him) was becoming a problem for her.

"Don't do that. Don't go alone." Donovan looked up now. "Go with me… uh us…"

"Us?" That peaked her interest. A date was intense, a group was better. She glanced again subtly at her partner. Still watching.

"Jefferies and Jill, Goldblatt and his wife, Sever, me. We're renting a limo."

"You flatfoots are getting uppity." She laughed.

"Hey it's black tie. When was the last time you threw on a ball gown?"

"Prom." She laughed again. Aware that she'd been standing there for 10 minutes yucking it up. The pace in the bullpen was slower during the holiday season, but not comatose. She needed to get back to work, she needed ward off speculation. Cops loved speculation. But Alex realized in the same instant that Chris was very easy to talk to. Standing there she'd forgotten herself. She hadn't done that in weeks. The realization made her spontaneous.

"Sure. Count me in, I'll go with you... or … uh … the group."

"With me." He shot out so quickly that she lost her balance and had to use a booted toe to keep steady.

"Okay."

"Okay." His smile was big and genuine.

In the aftermath she all but ran for the kitchenette. Usually empty, with it's warm cups of watery brew, it was the only place to restore her equilibrium. Had she really just committed to a date with Chris Donovan? She was losing it. Where in the hell was that scrappy Vice detective that wasn't going to be brought down by man or mistake or innuendo? Suddenly she was banging the ADA, cuddling with her partner, dating her peers. That Alex wouldn't even know this Alex.

_**It's stress, it's grief.**_

The voice was right on both counts. Escapism. A bid for control. Pure recklessness. She'd done it all before. She'd been promoted from patrol to detective. She'd lost her husband. She'd almost resigned after Joe. She'd actually turned in her badge in a moment of hysterical grief, only her dad and her old captain knew that. Like a seasoned profiler Alex saw her own patterns. She loathed them but accepted them.

**_This is natural._**

She gave herself a pass while clutching a brown paper cup in both hands.

* * *

She was going with Donovan.

If it wasn't fucking Carver, it was fucking Donovan.

And he hated this fucking bowtie too (his head was far fouler then his mouth these days).

Bobby squinted at his reflection. _**Black tie for a bunch of cops.** _He rolled his eyes at the guy in the mirror and they glowered at each other for a good long while. He'd rented this tux from a specialty store (that last 4 inches screwed him every time). He took small pleasure in imagining the pandemonium that had occurred inside Tuxedo Royale a block from 1PP, cops never went home. He imagined them all clamouring for appointments and fittings and smiled the smile of the malcontent. Sometimes being in the big and tall category had it's benefits. _**Losers.**_

He was in some kind of mood.

He blamed his partner.

Bobby adjusted his bowtie and smoothed a few wiry hairs down with some pomade. He tried to imagine all of the guys at Major Case doing what he was doing right now, primping and preening. He rolled his eyes again. _**Those meatheads? This was wasted on them.**_ All they needed was a keg and permission to burp.

Yes he was grousing. And yes he was going (_**oh he was going alright!**_) he'd jumped through every hoop to attend this event because he needed to keep an eye on Eames. He needed to make sure his partner didn't _grieve_ all over that opportunist Chris Donovan.

_**Liar.**_

"I'm not lying!" He actually barked that aloud in some kind of power struggle with his own psyche. _**Watch it Goren there might be a bit of crazy Frances in you yet.**_ Yes, he did want to protect Eames but he also wanted to see her, and dance with her, and do a million other inappropriate things to her. _**Good the whole truth. **_Laid bare on the witness stand inside the court of his cranium. Genuis was exhausting.

Unfortunately there was also the issue of Melissa. Melissa Hyler. He'd needed a date. He couldn't just go skulk around the party alone and moon pathetically over Eames. Especially since he knew she was having a spa day. He knew she was going in a limo. Bobby huffed. In a limo with _him,_ Donovan. He huffed again. Bobby needed to bring his A-game. His date, Melissa worked in accounts receivables on the 5th floor. No more Denise. Denise was stalking him. Denise was borderline. He couldn't deal with Denise's level of crazy right now. When it came to crazy his cup runneth over. Bobby just needed a fresh start with a girl who wouldn't forget her place.

_**Misogynist pig.**_

Not her place like the kitchen, her place as an acquaintance - _just an acquaintance -_ as a _casual companion_ not a future wife. Denise wanted a husband. And Robert Goren was pretty sure he was never going to be anyone's husband. He grabbed his overcoat sending the hanger skittering across the floor. He snatched up his car keys and bolted through the front door moving as fast as he could away from his chattering mind.

This was going to be an interesting evening.

And long.

Very very long.

* * *

Okay, so it was nice.

The venue was nice.

Really nice.

Spectacular even.

Chromium sat perched atop a skyscraper. It was a giant cube with soaring 30 foot ceilings and modern architectural detail - natural wood and steel and exposed beams. Around the perimetre at 4 foot intervals, sat soft glowing up lighters and a large customized banner welcoming the dedicated police officers and staff of One Police Plaza. The tables (a hundred at least) were like large polka dots in festive silver and ice blue - 12 seats to a round. Each one was worthy of a royal wedding, with a pin-spotted centrepiece - a large christmas orb on a simple stem. The dance floor was so glossy it might have been fibreglass.

Like all the new arrivals before them Bobby and Melissa paused in the entry looking all around completely bedazzled.

"Look up." His date gestured enthusiastically. The ceiling was strung with a canopy of twinkling lights, row upon row upon row. It looked like a loom waiting for an artist. There was a junk art chandelier dead centre, roughly the size of Bobby's apartment. The skyline glittered in the distance only a thin barrier of glass and away. What views! The top of the Rock had nothing on this.

_**Okay so maybe black tie wasn't out of order.** _Bobby admitted. Maybe a better question was who the hell was footing the bill? You could bet he'd be eagle eyeing all of the lines of his paycheck for large mysterious deductions.

He looked at his date. Melissa was cute with her auburn hair, emerald green dress and natural good humor. It was the latter he liked the most. They were on the same emotionally tepid page. He smiled down at her, but not as far down as usual. She was 5'8" (even more with heels). He took her hand in his and cut through crowds looking for their table _**and for Eames** _he silently admitted.

Then he saw her across a crowded room.

And like a romantic movie or a sappy ballad time seemed to stop.

And the band hit crescendo.

And the caterers parted.

And she was illuminated.

Unfortunately he also got a clear view of her date, Donovan. The man was curved around her like an insipid pashmina. Donovan looked so proud to have her on his arm because _she was naked!_

_**No not naked idiot.**_

It was just a trick of the eye. Her dress was like skin, a dewy sparkling skin. And it hugged every inch of her shaply body right down to the floor. **_Well not every inch._** It plunged deep between her breasts and it soared high up her thigh. Bobby felt his cock stir.

_**Shit.**_

He looked at Melissa again for camouflage, then back at Eames. Had Eames had that much hair this morning? She seemed to be simply cascading with hair. **_Damn you women and your beauty tricks._ **She had it rolled into a full touchable chignon with long tendrils caressing her neck and cheeks.

"She's beautiful." Melissa whispered pulling him from his reverie.

_**Shit.**_

"Yes she is, but she has nothing on you." He threw his date a lustful look which wasn't hard (visual transference and all).

"It's okay." She smiled warmly, she reached up and cupped his cheek and spoke in low tones "I like you Bobby. You're hot. You're smart. You're perfectly weird. And you're in love with your partner."

"I'm not…" His blood ran icy. If he was that obvious they were screwed.

Melissa pulled him low. She slid her small cool fingers around the back of his neck and guided him down. She tucked her lips into his ear "It's okay. Your secret is safe with me. The NYPD needs to mind their own business when it comes to our love lives. Let's make her jealous."

"Melissa…" he was stern now, deadly serious.

"Relax gorgeous." And this time _she_ took _his_ hand and brought him face to face with his partner.

"Bobby." Alex took him in, then his date.

"Eames." He nodded shortly. Up close she smelled like vanilla and winter - or what he imagined winter smelled like: bracing and woodsy. Up close Alex was even prettier her cheekbones and eyelids were shimmering. The mounds of her breasts peeked free of her plunging gown. Could a man drown in just the thought of cleavage?

Bobby pulled free of his sexual spiral "Donovan." he nodded curtly.

"This is some spread." The lanky blond offered.

"I know amazing isn't it." Melissa chimed in.

"I saw a memo last week." Alex said cynically, and she had (quite accidentally) seen a sheet sitting proud of all the clutter on Jimmy Deakins' desk. She'd kept the contents to herself but there was no harm in letting the cat out now. "The Chief of D's, the Commissioner, the Mayor are all on the guest list. This spread is all for the big guns. Lowest crime rates in a decade everyone is riding high."

Melissa shrugged, "Does it matter? This is awesome! However it came, I'll take it." She laughed and Alex felt old and grizzled compared to Bobby's girl. She was so optimistic and bright eyed. _**Bitch. **_The word came unbidden and Alex felt instantly ashamed.

The conversation came easy for this small group. Thanks mostly to the dates, Goren and Eames were characteristically mum. It was during their long silences that Alex realized how alike she and Bobby were. Both content to survey and assess. Later during the soup course she looked him up and down slyly from behind the leaves of her kale salad. He stole her breath. He was so dapper, so James Bond in his tux. It fit perfectly. She bit the inside of her lip hard. _**Think of the pain. Think of the pain.** _It was no use. With his dark good looks Alex could finally see him for who he truly was, beautiful.

This was so dangerous.

This thing they were playing at could ruin them. Besides Bobby's little green firecracker seemed to be keeping him nice and happy, her hands had hardly left his body all night. Alex tried not to shoot daggers and death stars at Melissa Hyler but she might have failed.

_**It's natural to be possessive**_. She only wanted what was best for him. But the monster inside fed on those lies and grew as green as Melissa's gown.

"How is A/R these days." Alex asked trying to achieve polite not catty.

"Ah it's a stopgap." Melissa smiled "I'm working on my MBA at Stern."

"NYU my alma mater." Alex offered. _**Ugh, a point of connection.**_ She didn't want to like the woman.

"Really? Criminal Justice?"

"That would have made sense wouldn't it?" Alex shook her head, "I was late to this game. I'm a math and computer science undergrad."

"So you…"

"Got my Criminal Justice degree correspondence from St. John's" A statement which set the ladies on a trajectory of (but not limited to) the conveniences and nightmares of obtaining an online degree, while the men played with their food and sagged into their palms with boredom.

After rounds of food and speeches and a raffle, came the dancing. Movement of any kind was very welcomed by atrophied muscles and distended tummies of all the guests. Soon you couldn't see the dance floor for bodies.

"Chris let's dance." Alex implored playing to her femininity, batting her eyes, touching his hand. It wasn't hard in this dress. She felt sexy, she felt like a vixen. She wanted Bobby jealous, she wanted him eaten up with desire for her. She wanted payback for his touchy feely date. It worked and then some. When Alex stood all gamine and lithe his breath caught. Then she turned and revealed the back of her dress to be MIA. Bobby watch her hips sway and fine line of her spine until he couldn't see for the throngs.

"I think I have a girl crush. Melissa whispered "She's the whole package isn't she?"

He looked into his date's impish eyes, still not prepared to take her on as a confidant. Instead like a gentleman he offered his hand, "May I have this dance?"

"Why yes you may kind sir." She giggled back.

Out there on the sprung hardwood dance floor it was war, a war of intimacy, flirtation and showboating. Goren's hand fell to the small of his Melissa's back and Alex retaliated by pushing closer to Chris. Goren nestled into his date's hair so Eames stroked her date's chest. All the while their eyes stayed fused. All the while pursed lips passed angry threats.

It wasn't until the lights went low then suddenly magenta that the ohhs and ahhs and really bad behaviour began. It was the worst mix of an open bar and high threshold.

It was Goren that initiated the dance partner swap. He'd had enough of these games. He wanted to feel Alex against him.

"May I cut in?" He asked smoothly, then clasped her hand and lead her away from a bereft Detective Donovan. Then he pulled her close, closer then he ever would have dared under high incandescent lights. The shadows allowed him to run an index finger down the small of her bare back. He felt her shiver.

"I don't like him." Bobby said immediately.

"Who?"

"Donovan."

"Or Carver." She teased.

"Or Carver." He agreed and let his lips brush her ear.

"Hmmmm, strange. All they have in common is me." She raised her face to challenge him.

"Good deduction detective, but they're also both men."

"I agree, men suck."

"You are such a smart ass."

"Thanks." She grinned.

Suddenly he sobered "You look hot tonight."

"You've had too much to drink." Her tone was serious and censorious.

"I just ate a 4 course meal, with 2 glasses of wine. " He tightened his grip. "That dress is painted on." He whispered.

"Don't do this." She straightened away from him self consciously.

"Don't let him touch you."

"Which him? I'm getting deja vu Goren."

"Any hims. All hims!" He said a little too loudly during a particularly mellow bridge.

"Keep your voice down." Alex whispered harshly.

"Do you want to be the 1PP slut?" He fired.

"If we weren't surrounded by narcs right now, I would knock you out." She said between clenched teeth pushing away from him.

"I'm sorry." He bit out close to her ear. "I'm sorry. I'm… I'm jealous." He felt both lame and liberated.

"God Bobby. What are we doing here?"

"Dancing?"

"You know what I mean."

"Playing with fire." He admitted. "Getting burned."

She sighed and her warm gusty breath lingered on his neck made him stir.

"I want… I want…" He danced her slowly to a darker corner, he danced her until he couldn't see a familiar face in the crowd. "I want to be with you."

"We can't." Her heart sang. But she refused to give in.

"You want it too." He spun her back to the wall and let an intrepid hand slide low over her rear. He squeezed. "Tell me."

"You have a date."

"I have a decoy." He retorted.

Alex felt flushed and tingly and she wanted nothing more then to puddle all over him.

"Tell me." He demanded again his his other hand joining the first cupping her ass and getting her good and close.

"I want you." She said at last. Blame it on the twinkle, blame it on the music, blame it on the press of their bodies and the rush of feeling beautiful and desired.

Or maybe, just maybe she was falling in love.

"Tonight." He urged. "Come home with me tonight."

"I can't Chris."

His voice was sinister "Forget Chris. Fuck Chris." She peered around his big body. No one was looking at them, everyone was lost in their own moment. She couldn't see their dates anywhere on the horizon. And she thought. _**He's right. Bobby is right. We have something. This connection is once in a lifetime stuff** _and Alexandra Eames didn't think mystical things like that lightly. She'd had her once in a lifetime, with her college sweetheart a lifetime ago. Or so she'd thought. But Bobby was so intense. Bobby was a force. From the second she'd met him she'd known it was all or nothing.

"Okay." She said.

"Okay?" He sounded giddy. He whirled her around in fantastic fashion lifting her off her feet (which did earn them a look or two).

"But I have to leave with the man who brought me." She was firm about that.

"Eame…" She pressed a manicured finger to his lips.

"No. I'm taking the limo. You know where I live." She teased.

That he did.

That he did.

* * *

There was once something written about the best laid plans.

Probably also with star-crossed lovers such as these.

That tale had a bittersweet conclusion too.

As the clock chimed 12 that night it had a rush of company. A series of pagers tucked deep into tuxedo pockets and bejeweled clutches tweeted and beeped along like backup singers. And a man and woman dressed to the nines looked wistfully at each other across a beautifully appointed table.

Deakins materialized like the Ghost of Christmas yet to come.

"It a big one. Governor's niece, a dead body and 15lbs of heroin. Get home, get changed, the address is on your device." He looked down at his detectives and took a deep breath(alizer) "Either of you too blitzed to catalogue a crime scene?" He panned from Goren to Eames to Goren again.

"We can do it." Came two people with one voice.

* * *

_**Four Days Later**_

The cab of the Yukon was a cold place to spend Christmas Eve. But so be it. They were there watching the front door of a thug named Emil Ramos, praying he would do his dirty deal and let them take him out so they could salvage what was left of this 'holiday.'

"Eames about the other night…" Goren started.

"Let's just forget it happened." She never moved her eyes from the handle of that front door.

"_That_ will _never_ happen."

"It was the wine, the clothes the atmosphere. Look at us now." It was true, there was no glamour here with hats, mitts, scarves in place, sitting under a pile of mismatched blankets: some pilling and threadbare (his) others lush (hers) all from their home linen closets, all so they didn't have to run the engine in 30 degree weather.

It was hard to remember looking so beautiful.

"Look at the time." He showed her his cell.

"11:59." They both stared as it ticked over to 12.

"It's Christmas."

She looked at him now, full in the eye. "Merry Christmas Bobby."

"Merry Christmas Eames. Alex."

They held a long meaningful gaze.

"I'm sorry you're not with your mom." She said looking through the glass again because the words felt like a sucker punch.

"I'm sorry you aren't with yours." He sighed.

"I am, sort of, I guess." She said sadly. And just then it started to snow. "Dammit we'll never see him in this and we can't use the wipers."

"I have something for you." Bobby said suddenly.

"You do?"

"Uh huh." He pulled out a leather bound box.

"Bobby. No." Boxes like that came with price tags.

"Yes." He popped open the lid to expose a fine filigreed gold watch.

"Are you kidding me?" She shook her head "This must have cost a mint."

"Once upon a time maybe I've never had it appraised. It was a gift. I got it when I was stationed abroad. I had it engraved for you. Don't worry it's sentimental more then anything. It was just collecting dust. I want you to have it."

She gave him a look both wary and wistful, then she took it from him and turned it over. It said:

_**It's all about the timing. Love Bobby**_

She smiled softly afraid to look up. "Do you Bobby? Do you love me?"

He didn't answer. Not directly. "We're in this. We're family."

She liked that. She nodded. Family.

And she had a flash in that moment. This was love. Not the basic yearnings of sexual frustration (though there was that) no, the transcendent kind. She could feel him inside, in her heart. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, maybe it was the culmination of the last 15 months, maybe it was fancy that would fade in the harsh light of day. Who knew. In this tight cabin, under a mound of blankets with the Christmas snow falling around them it felt magical.

"Put it on me then." She pulled off her glove and held out her left wrist. He took it gently and pressed his mouth there, not to her hand but to the protrusion of that bone, that angular hinge where his gift would sit. She inhaled sharply and felt warm lips replaced by the cool caress of metal she heard a the click of the clasp as he claimed her.

Then outside there was movement.

Then headlights.

Then their doors flung open.

Then their feet crunched in fresh fallen snow.

Then there was a chase.

And then they got their man.

She had the bracelets, he had Miranda, a perfect team.

They walked back to the SUV sometime later.

"Top ten Christmas?" He murmured to her. His breath was a puff of smoke, icy fluff clung to his hat and coat and lashes.

"Top 5 at least."


	15. Chapter 15

**SHANDEH**

This case was about sex pure and simple.

Very little of it for infantile Danny Sussman. Ample 'portions' for Bobby and Alex served up on an aging strippers collapsing balconette. Even the perp, Big Louie was getting his knob polished nice and regular by an African American amazon aptly named Starr (her afro and near Goren stature did seem pretty astronomical to Alex.)

Of course it had started off innocuously enough. The bat signal had gone up and they'd responded because it was murder and they were the 'special' murder beat. They'd arrived separately at an affluent suburban household and found a dark family tragedy (like most of their cases). Devout, scrubbed, simple Kelly Sussman had never made it out of her mini-van. And her kids had seen her there, Alex shook her head, stolen innocence.

As she and Goren tumbled through this case they soon found that innocence was in short supply all over. Less then 24 hours into murk and mire it became undeniable that there was a raging sub-plot here. Sex. Sexual drives. Sexual inadequacies.

This case was about sex impure and complicated.

* * *

The law of the state of New York? More like the law of the jungle.

It was mating season and the primates where getting restless.

Was it any wonder that all this _free range_ _sexual energy_ had take root in the lead detectives?

**_That had to be it_** Alex thought because she was feeling anxious, restless, _bothered_.

_**Murder cases can't spread lust. There's nothing sexy about murder.**_

Okay then, maybe it was that time of the month. That time when a woman looked around the world of men with more then just casual interest. A time when biological imperative beat out _breed, breed, breed, breed_ like a drum. A little voice debunked her theory and offered a new one. **_Or m__**aybe** it's denial. It's not just a river in Egypt you know, _**her quippy brain informed her. **_It's also secretly longing for a booty call that should have happened after a certain Christmas party._**

Nothing had been the same since that night. It had changed her body chemistry: plus dopamine, plus oxytocin, minus common sense... She went weak kneed at the memories of all of the business that she and Bobby had left unfinished, in the back of taxis, on the dance floor, in the front seat of the SUV.

She looked across the squad room at him, head down, scribbling something on a piece of paper and _the guilt._ She was standing here daydreaming while he was being productive. For her sanity, _for her dignity,_ she shook the spectre of him away and crossed the room with new determination. She sat down smoothly and clenched loose thighs, ignored those puckered nipples.

This was all her biological clock.

Ovulation and this bloody case.

* * *

"Just watch this," Goren murmured to Eames before heading into Interrogation 1. "She's like Samson except her strength is in her breasts."

"No mastectomies." Alex joked. "Too messy."

'Only the figurative kind." He smiled but it was just a lip spasm, it didn't reach his eyes.

She squinted. Was he angry? He seemed angry.

Bobby drew back the heavy grey door and moved slowly toward their suspect. Sandi Tortomassi sat there chin sharply forward, arms crossed in a burgundy... Blouse? That seemed too generous a term for the scrap of patterned fabric that barely corralled the woman's endowments. _**Samson the philistine **_Bobby mused enjoying a little biblical irony.

Alex watched him approach their suspect with what could only be described as raw machismo. Then she watched him reconsider, pull back, pitch his frame at angles to the wall. He'd decided to watch, decided to unnerve. Every suspect had a language this ex-stripper was confident in sexuality but she was neutered by disdain.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you? Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free."

"Why by the cow when you can get the milk for free." His face twisted with revulsion and his head shook, the thought was an anathema.

Tortomassi's bravado seeped out like the stuff from a maliciously punctured condom.

Sensing it wasn't even worth getting comfortable both detectives stood for this take down. They circled her. They made her feel small. They worked her with their devious psychological games. For Alex staying upright was the bulk of her contribution. She was only half in the game. Some days Robert Goren's personality - the sheer volume of his being - seemed to leave precious space in a room for others. Today was one of those days. Alex watched his shirt bunch and ruffle. She zoned on his massive trunk, licked her lips at the sight of biceps suddenly engorged by folded arms. How could she not have realized on day one (the moment Deakins had issued introductions) just how masculine he was?

"Whoa, you really have this little guy under your thumb dontcha?" He leaned down and Alex watched his trousers pulling taut over his backside. "Well I can see why. Must of been some workout you gave him in that big bedroom of yours." Goren's voice lowered to a sultry mocking.

"Sure when the kids weren't around." Tortomassi's voice trembled just a little. _**Hmmmm interesting.**_ The first real falter from this streetwise barely reformed lady of the night(club). A lie. The wobbly body of bullshit always stank in the stark, airtight, cinder and cement of this room. It was all a seasoned detective could do not hold her nose.

This time the truth was a mockery. This woman who oozed sensuality, no not sensuality, she oozed sex, unrefined, brutish, in your face - had kept her chastity with her shy Jewish benefactor. It truly boggled the mind. _**W****as it her stunning conversation?** _Alex snarked to an audience of one. Sussman had risked it all, he'd paid big time, for nothing. Less then nothing.

They looked down on Sandi Tortomassi's busting bosom and bullish nose. She wasn't innocent of much, but she was innocent of this murder.

* * *

And as it happened Sandi's reckoning had nothing on Danny's in this perversion of Grease - minus the purity, love and infectious melodies. Alex followed Bobby into Interrogation 2. Walking behind him. Savouring his density. Strange that, to be aware of the heaviness of someone. The weight of his arms. the heft of his shoulders. She blinked hard and then flexed her lids as if trying to discipline her eyes.

"I can't think." Sussman repeated pathetically. "I can't think."

"You proved that by getting mixed up with some bottled blonde boom boom girl." Eames couldn't resist nasty alliteration and Goren couldn't resist a cackle. One two punch. Goren stared down the mild mannered Kosher foods retailer with an insolent tilt of the head. The suspect sat complete with kippah and a piety that ran generations deep.

"You don't have to tell me I know that. I shamed my family. What was I thinking?"

"It was worth it." Goren crawled up over the tabletop and bent in half, planting gigantic forearms and a big head right in Sussman's face. Alex had long ago shucked her shirt. Hot. She was hot. This was hot. She sat on the table beside him. She wanted to run her hand over his back, she wanted to test the firmness of his rear.

_**Calm the hell down! Think of butterflies and daisies. Think of your 70 year old aunt for fuck's sake!**_

"I bet this girl gave you quite a ride, no wonder you were still making the drive up to Westchester every other morning." He pressed. "Did you go bareback or use a condom?"

"Uh… Condom."

"Did you buy 'em on the way up there or did she keep a box next to the bed?

"She had them."

**_Meek-man._** Eames mocked from her rigid perch on the table top. He was almost childlike in his passivity. No angry barrages, no mind your own business. All the silence, the deference was damning. And Alex sat there every single muscle rigid. She was torn by a natural desire to ridicule the small man and the naughty thoughts about the big one: **_bareback, bareback, bareback…_**

"Really?" Goren went on "That's funny because we searched her room and we didn't find anything. Bathroom either, no condom, no diaphragm, no pills. There goes that blink rate again." He was right. Sussman's eyes were trying to fly away from all this, his lashes flapping up and down like great big wings. "She really kept you going didn't she? For two years. Two years Danny and not once. Right Danny? Not a once."

"It was okay. I didn't mind really." Sussman looked down with all the virility of an eight year old boy.

"_Oh come on!_ What are you made of marble? You were dying for it!" Goren didn't have to reach deep for his indignance. He spoke the truth. This could just as easily been him blowing off in a therapy session. Or to his buddies over a couple of beers. His balls were as blue as little Danny Sussman's.

Alex finally found her voice, she got off the sidelines "And she kept upping the ante a condo for mom, a house for the kids, a strip club for her."

"A dead wife for you."

* * *

Alex dove into the bathroom in the aftermath of that interrogation. Flushed and shvitzing. She felt shame seep in between hot naked thoughts. This wanting was uniquely absurd. Imagine, desiring him so badly after the fight she'd waged to get away. She felt pathetic. She felt needy and so alone in that need.

She clenched a moist brown paper towel and tossed it angrily at the garbage can. She missed an easy rimshot and growled in frustration. _**Everything sucks today!**_ She'd just bent to pick it up when the bathroom door burst open. It flew back on itself and slammed into the wall. She jumped about 10 feet.

"Bobby? What the hell!" She yelled not caring about commotion or clamor or _anything_ because clearly he didn't either. "See that triangle on the door. That's a skirt. And that means WOMEN ONLY."

She tried to muscle past him.

He but instead he hussled her back quickly, unsteadily into a stall and locked the door.

"What the hell?" She said again.

His frame pushed her back into the metal wall. Not the meat and bone of him, just the forcefield of forbidden energy that they'd errected to keep from molesting each other. Every square inch of them was surrounded by a superheated pillow of air. "Have you done it?" He demanded.

"Done what?" She turned her face to his and her lips fell open. If he wanted her right here, right now he wouldn't get an ounce of resistance.

He leaned low and fit the plump of his lip to the valley of hers, still leaving that tantalizing pocket of air between them. "Told Carver it's over."

"I… " She faltered. _**Who? Was he speaking Greek? **_All she could see were his lips.

"I saw you." He bit out between clenched teeth.

"What?"

"I saw you with him this morning. Sitting in his car. I saw him with his hands on you. I saw you kiss him. What the fuck are you playing at?"

_**Shit.**_

"I wasn't kissing him." She denied. Then got up on her toes to peer up over the edge shooting a glance at the sealed bathroom door wondering when some unsuspecting woman with a full bladder would walk in on this forbidden scene.

"I thought this was... I thought we were..." He stopped himself before he revealed too much but he was clearly raw, he was red with rage. He felt entitled to her. He felt like she was his.

"_He_ kissed _me_." She explained because she felt like an adulteress. She felt like he deserved an explanation. "I didn't mean to... I wasn't trying to..." She stopped mid-stutter. She met his laser gaze. Then she squared small shoulders. "No! No! You know what Bobby? It's none of your damn bu…"

"Isn't it?" Both hands slammed into the beige cubicle on either side of her head. He punched with all of his pent up violence. He shook all 7 stalls on their rivets and left a Goren sized impression there in the metal.

She jumped, again. "Calm down."

"No!" He banged again this time. A tap for emphasis.

They stared hotly.

But he didn't touch her. Not once.

He took a few heaving breaths, nostrils flaring like she was red flag and these were the streets of Pamplona. "Was it good-bye? Have you told Carver it's over?"

"N- no. Not yet."

But it was. She and Ron were over. _So over._ But whenever she went to make it final, the words gummed up in her throat. Like this morning in his car. He'd taken her silence as consent.

"Then it's still not right for us." He let his hands drop. He took a step back. "Not yet."

She actually raised a hand to stop him, looped a finger in the between buttons 3 and 4 and felt his undershirt.

"No. _Don't!_" That last word, issued in a whisper, scraped her lips and chin. With that he turned and left.

She stood there alone and quivering and oh_ so frustrated_. And in flash it came full circle.

This case.

_The wanting, _day in and day out, but never having. Alexandra Eames understood the plight of Daniel Sussman.

She understood his silent submission.

She understood his daily irrational sacrifices just for the nearness of her.

She understood it in spades.


	16. Chapter 16

**BAGGAGE**

"I don't think we have anything to say to each other tonight."

"Look I'm sorry." She'd been freezing him out since the bathroom since his emotions had gotten the better of him. Could he really blame her? He'd gone too far. She was making him crazy.

"I think you're pent up."

"Who's fault is that?"

Her surprise was breathy. She clenched the receiver. "Now I'm responsible for... for... clearing your pipes."

He laughed in a very pure way and so did she.

And all grievances were temporarily forgotten because Bobby and Alex were comfortable living here in the Republic of Limbo. Was this friendship? Love? Should they label it? Were they together? Were they seeing other people? Should they even be doing this?

Only one thing was certain, they were ridiculous.

They spent their days rigidly focused on the cases and then he called her every night and unleashed the man. It was a study in disassociation. They were a pair of mental cases with AM and PM personas that needed the anonymity of a telephone to be honest. But on the other hand it was a very smart separation of church and state. How else would this ever work? How else could they keep all their emotional and sexual baggage separate from the job? Alex had to admit that their conversations were akin to must-see TV for her. She made sure to have her fuzzy grey track pants and over sized hoodie on. She'd plop down onto her favourite spot (the section of her couch farthest to the left under the glow of the floor lamp) where her butt had worked a comforting dip in the foam underlay. She made sure to always have a glass of something at hand. A smoothie after a workout, some amber fire on those hard days, an elegant stem of burgundy on other nights (for the anti-oxidants, for the buzz) or a just cup of herbal tea when her lids hung low and she knew she wouldn't make it more then 10 minutes post dial tone.

"Are we weird?" She asked suddenly.

"Yes." He rumbled without hesitation.

"_Bobby._"

"What? We are."

"I mean because we're like robots at work. Then we have this."

"Well, I do have a genetic predisposition toward more then one personality."

She snorted. "Shut up. You're saner then me."

And because she was the most grounded, sensible person he had ever met that simple comment lifted him in ways she would never know.

"No Eames. It's not weird, it's survival." He paused and took a swig.

"What are you having tonight?" She asked.

He turned the bottle and read the shiny silver label "Guinness Premium. You?"

"Red Bull."

"It's 10:30! You expecting company?" He bit.

"I fell asleep the second I got in."

"So now you're drinking Red Bull and sabotaging the rest of the night, for this?" He was smiling, broadly, she could hear his face split.

"Maybe." The admission came on a wave of embarrassment.

"Put down the can of insomnia. Right now. I mean it."

She sighed gustily and he heard a clank. He settled back edging his fingers under the waistband of his pants.

"What are you wearing?"

"Oh my God." Phone sex. He wanted phone sex.

"Eames." He implored.

"Sweats."

"Sexy." He teased. "And under them?"

"Are we really doing this?"

"Why not. We aren't _doing_ anything else." There was a tinge of bitterness.

She stayed silent.

"You know what I want." He said and every square inch of her skin raised. Arousal. They wanted the same damn thing which was why this _avoidance_ was so inexplicable.

"Yeah I know what you want."

There was a lengthy pause. Then she blurted out exactly the most toxic thing.

"Why don't you call one of your girls." It was exactly what she hoped he would n_ever do_. It didn't make an ounce of sense. Maybe it was something about giving voice to fears. Or maybe this was who she was. Alex built walls. She pushed people away. But the words felt like acid on her lips, they made her clutch her chest. The things he brought out scared her to death.

"Is that what you want?" he asked.

_**No! Please no, it's not what I want,**_ instead, "Isn't that what you do?" Bitterness was a river that flowed both ways.

"Not anymore."

"What do you mean?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"No more substitutes. I'm all in Alex. I'm all in with this, with us."

Shock was a silent line. Shock was held breath. Shock was a tingle between her thighs.

She screwed up her courage and whispered.

"Black lace bra, leopard print bikini briefs."

* * *

Their vic Jenny Sullivan had worked in a boys club before her untimely death. Alex knew a little something about being the odd one out (chromosomally speaking). Walter Tate, an airline employee, was keeping secrets. They agreed to soften him up the best way they knew how. "You play it snarky and I'll be a good old boy." Bobby waggled his eyebrows.

She laughed.

He loved her laugh.

Then they were in that tight cluttered office. It smelled of conveyor belt oil, Cinnabon, cigarettes and depression. And it was just big enough to hold three people and a modern art mosaic of suitcases: plastic and canvas and leather-look. There was a lost soul and rows and rows of lost luggage occupying this office.

"There was a salary bump with that promotion." Alex needled.

"Would have been." Walter Tate's voice had baggage. It rang of resentment he claimed not to have.

"Oh, Man." Goren shook his head, "Instead you got stuck in this little hell hole."

"I don't mind." Tate bit out. "I like the guys."

Goren nodded then he fondled a pack of matches, he read the logo. "Loyalty counts for something. Can I bum a smoke from you? I mean you can smoke in here right?"

The man handed him a cancer stick.

"What do you supervise in here Mr Tate? Lost luggage." Eames got right up under his skin, grating meanly on his open professional wound. The man grimaced.

"Ah don't sweat it, you were just biding your time." Goren soothed and leaned in to light up their Marlboroughs. Both of the men sat back and took a long illicit draw on the their cigarettes finding their happy place for just a moment.

"Indecent Exposure Gentleman's Club we passed that on the way here." Goren zeroed in on the matchbook cover again.

"I didn't notice." Eames growled from the back of the room.

"You guys hang out there?"

"Yeah sometimes."

"Jenny must have felt right at home in a titty bar. Oh right, that's the point she wouldn't, right Walter" Eames picked.

"You know what? We're going to let you get back to your work. Thank you for your help." Then Goren paused and braced on the door frame. "I almost forgot, I once busted a stripper her specialty was this thing with a glowstick. They do that there?"

"Yeah they do that." The man's smile was one part chagrin and one part lechery.

Alex thought of the glowstick Bobby had been manipulating all morning like a totem. "I can't believe you touched that thing." Her disgust was palpable. Once they were well into the airport she added, "And no more smoking it'll kill you."

His eyes danced.

His partner. His wife.

* * *

They sold it to Carver. They put the passion on overdrive, perhaps to make up for a notable lack of connective tissue. Their line between workplace harassment and murder was weak, but if enthusiasm made cases well... They had a laundry list of time stamped, dated instances of the harassment that their vic had suffered in her own handwriting. And they had formal complaints she had lodged with the Trans Union Air Human Resources department. They also had Jenny Sullivan's documented intention to take her complaints to the state.

Carver was dismissive."As appalling as their behaviour is it doesn't predispose them to murder."

Ronald Carver had been dismissive a lot lately. Maybe this was his punishment. Maybe now all their cases were going to need twice the authenticated evidence and twice the number of signed affidavits. After all he held the outcome of their case in his megalomaniacal palm.

_**Yeah right. This isn't the punishment this is just the icing. **_Goren thought.

Carver's payback for the Bonham case was kissing Eames. It was getting Eames into his car, it was caressing her, it was putting his tongue in her mouth. It was a knife in Goren's gut. It was horrible to think that he was so invested and Alex was still conflicted. Was it his imagination or was Carver's smug face even more smug then usual.

This DA's office felt electrified, every surface was a conductor, every thought shocking. Goren stared at Carver with a fixed kind of insanity. _**This is who she wants?** _This guy was no better then the assholes they were trying to prosecute. Wielding his professional power for personal gain, bringing tension over Eames to the job. If this case taught them anything it was that people didn't stop being people - lude, petty, jealous overlords - during the hours of 9 to 5 or because they were collecting a salary.

Goren stared at Carver and disgust crept in around the edges.

Ron didn't flinch.

* * *

What was it about toilets?

The doors to the lavatory were like truth serum.

No, like a magical gateway into the honesty dimension.

Not 10 minutes after the Sulivan briefing two adversaries had a long overdue confrontation.

"Detective." Carver's voice echoed loudly.

Bobby's shoulders tensed. So, it came down to this. A conversation under the bright fluorescent lights of the courtroom urinal.

"I can't help but feel there is something off in our…" The ADA searched for the right word, "interactions."

Goren looked down. He had his dick out for God's sake. But maybe that was the point, get him while he was weak, jab him in the johnson. The detective took a slow breath. He wouldn't play to this sneak attack. He wouldn't piss all over himself in a panic. Instead he didn't acknowledge. He calmly kept himself in hand and watched the stream of warm lemonade hit the drain. Then he counted.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5

Done.

Adjust.

Tuck.

Zip.

Turn.

"Really? Something's off?" He stared down on the smaller man for a moment. Then he moved casually to the sink.

"I think this is about detective Eames." Carver asserted.

"I think she would castrate us both for this conversation." Bobby smirked during a quick lather and rinse of his hands.

"It's a talk that bears having. And this is about as close to a confessional as were going to get."

He had a point. Goren's eyes panned down to the floor, to the bland white one inch tile. He assessed each stall, no feet in cubicles 1 through 10, and no women allowed. "What exactly do you want to have out?"

"You're interested in something I possess." Carver said cryptically.

"You possess Eames?" Bobby wished he had a tape recorder. Alex would flay this presumptuous fucker alive.

"Poor choice of words." He admitted, "But she is the rub isn't she?"

"You have a wife."

"I also have a legal separation."

"That isn't exactly true is it?" Goren had pulled a favour. He knew the actual status of that separation was pending. There was a signature missing from the document. This lawyer not only had a wife, he had a wife who wanted to make it work.

"Checking up on me?"

"I have my partner's back. It's the natural order of things."

"You want to have her front." The lawyer played with words, it was his stock-in-trade, "Back off."

Goren was seeing now that Ronald Carver was more then just a nice suit and a measured tone. He was something else. He was entitled. Goren could see now that that entitlement was bigger then the job. It went way back. It was a mantra "you're the best Ronny' whispered into a little boy's ear each night before a 13 tog duvet (with an appropriate masculine motif - cowboys? basketballs?) was pulled up around his ears.

The entitlement Goren sensed seemed intrinsic to this dark diminutive man. The entitlement was clearly something he had no conscious awareness of. That was the best kind of confidence. Bobby'd had to nurture his own confidence, all clandestine and illegal like a hydroponic grow op. In Bobby's neighbourhood boys had gotten broken noses for forgetting their place - from other boys and from their mothers.

"Why don't we let Alex decide that."

"She has decided." Carver asserted smoothly shoving open hands into his pockets. "And she'll be deciding again, with me in," He looked at a chunky gold Rolex. "in 32 minutes."

The news felt like a sucker punch but Goren took it like a champ.

"Why are you talking to me then? Go have your booty call." But it wasn't in this cop to concede. He tilted his head (a signature move) and stuck equally easy pose. He thrust his hands into 'almost as good' navy blue pockets and grinned "Oh I get it. This isn't a booty call at all. Could there be trouble in paradise?"

That got Carver's back way up. "I'll have your badge if you cross the line with her."

Goren's grin widened. _**Yes, there it was, the flailing of an insecure man. **_

"An indiscretion with your partner is a code of conduct no no." Carver threatened.

**_Whoa. A serious threat. This guy has it bad._**

"Yeah you're right." Goren held out his hands like the scales of justice. "Code of conduct, 7th commandment." The latter weighed low. He did it again. "Formal reprimand in my jacket. Immortal soul burning in hell." Bobby wasn't religious but he knew that Ronald Carver made it to Holy Trinity Lutheran every Sunday morning.

_**Chew on that.**_

The two men stared at each other either one all too capable of taking a swing, but neither wanting the messiness of it - from the urine splashed floor, from their emotion, from their bruises,_ sullying their business_. The law was their business. Neither moved, but they silently decimated each other, bloodied each other with their eyes. It soon became clear that there was nothing left to say. Almost nothing. Goren got the last word. "Good talk." He said flipply. He binned his paper towel and pushed past his adversary.

* * *

He left with a bomb ticking down inside him. 32 Minutes, 28 now. The question was should he cut the green wire.

The answer was _yes_.

He found his partner right where he'd left her, outside courtroom 36A.

"Break for lunch?" She asked casually.

"Can we talk first? Privately?" The kid inside every adult knew that no one liked a tattle tale but sometimes it was the only way.

"Um, sure." She checked her phone.

"Somewhere to be?" He lied his face off.

"Lunch meeting. Nothing that can't wait a few."

He guided her down 4 storeys to the subterranean level of the building for complete privacy. Once inside the SUV Bobby told on Ron. Alex sat stone still and she betrayed nothing, not her embarrassment, not her anger not her resentment at being discussed like property, like a mutual problem by these men. The ghost of Jenny Sullivan haunted her in that moment.

Bobby told the truth of course, (the truth was paramount) but he spun it expertly. He spun it as a grievous breach of workplace decorum. He painted himself as ambushed and terribly uncomfortable. He painted Carver (with a very fine precise brush that stayed well inside the lines) as highly inappropriate. "Just thought you should know." he finished.

She looked at him.

He was a master of manipulation.

Alex knew he was playing her and yet she also believed every word.

She had mentally quit Ron ages ago.

Today it was time to let him know.

* * *

The weasel broke. Keith Ramsey broke just like the thug he was, just like the self-important murdering scum bag he was. At first they hadn't liked him for it, he played the goodie good to a tee. A straight arrow, lover of women - a self-aggrandizing one to be sure - but he'd just seemed so genuinely mild mannered. Mild mannered until Goren taunted him into a temper tantrum. A fully evolved 'fling everything off the table' temper tantrum.

And there it was.

The blinding rage that had allowed him to crack Jenny Sullivan's skull.

Pure malevolence compressed into an elven hairdo and an overly tailored suit.

They got him.

"Good job detectives." Deakins smiled. They'd done it again. Goren and Eames were awesome. "You two are…" He faltered mid-accolade. Something was off, the air seemed denser then it should be in the aftermath of a big win.

Unbeknownst to their Captain real life drama was bleeding in, tainting that well earned euphoria. The only woman on this crime-fighting team had had her fill of misogynistic machinations for one day - from the perp, from her un-lover, even from her partner.

Eames flew out of the room leaving the men to follow. Her stride was wide and angry and something in the set of her shoulders said that the next person to get in her face was going to get their teeth handed to them. The men looked at each other wide eyed, wearing their 'hell hath no fury faces'. Still Carver tried to connect, he tried for that old bond. He had to. He felt her slipping away.

"That's the problem with most men, they want what they can't get and don't want what they have." He quipped lightly struggling to keep pace.

"No, the problem with men is they talk too much." She sliced and left them in her dust.


	17. Chapter 17

**COLD COMFORT**

They needed to _see _Roy Manahan - the once head of a security detail assigned to the wife of Senator Randolph Kittridge. They needed to address a matter of the utmost sensitivity. Sensitive matters lead to lies. Lies led to stalled cases. So a phone call was out of the question. Bobby had told Alex that the man's facial features: a knob on his nose or the winding of his ear or the shape of his chin, combined with the look in his eyes would give them everything they needed. And she willfully ignored the look in _his_ eyes as he said it. The gazes they shared now were tight and heavy like a satchel crammed with everything and the kitchen sink.

Unfortunately it was a 3 hour rural drive to Binghamton, New York. And 3 hours (one way) was a lot of time. Time to settle into heated seats. Time to tire of the grandiose voices of top 40 radio hosts. Time to cast surreptitious glances at Bobby in all of his buddhist meditative glory. And (worst of the lot) time to roast in her own juices.

Many an ill-fated resolution had been made by wary road warriors. Alex naively joined them. Alex resolved to punch reset. She resolved to stop picking her boyfriends from the shallow pool of 1PP employees. She wanted tabula rasa (though she'd settle for a gently used slate with faint impressions). Alex had a dream, a simple fantasy where she got up, drove to work, punched a clock, collected a paycheque and went home. Simple. Automated. Alex. She wanted the blissfully uncomplicated life of a worker. She wanted her anonymity back. She could feel all the chunks of herself she'd had lost during this debacle with the ADA. She'd exposed her white vulnerable underbelly and her pulse raced with shame at the thought. _**Stupid.**_

It had been a sloppy ending with Ron. He'd said, "I don't want to let go of a good thing." And she'd _finally_ mustered the heart to tell him that it wasn't so good. And the _look_ he had given her… It'd said _**You'll still be hefting those bankers boxes of evidence only now my office will be on top of a cliff.**_ Carver would make them scale and scrabble and grovel to assuage his ego, Alex was sure of it. But whatever. It was done. She felt a thousand, no a million pounds lighter. Perhaps the last vestiges of her innocence were the worst casualty. Her new jaded 'wardrobe' made Pre-Ron Alex seem like an innocent tra-la-laing through the daisies.

She felt calloused.

Hard.

Mean.

They drove up the broad swath of Interstate 380. Alex felt her eyes catch on the salty crust and grey water spots that covered the windshield. And that obstruction, having the world beyond them coated in a filthy film drew her back inside to Bobby over and over and over. She mustered up for another big talk. She owed him the courtesy of a face to face (or rather profile to profile) discussion.

"It's done. It's over." She said abruptly.

His mind whipped and knotted and then _got it_. **_Carver._** "Okay. Good."

"I did it for me." She informed him still speaking cryptically. "I didn't do it because of some notion about _us_ or because of your showdown in the washroom."

Well that stung. She said _us_ like it was ridiculous. She devalued him by applying _that_ inflection to _that_ syllable.

"I know. No one makes you do anything." He said at last because he understood her.

He looked over at her cheek rouged peaches and cream with a porcelain glaze. She was like that when she drove, like a doll, immobile and perfect. She was different in every scene change. In the field she was frightening, rigid and stern and a little bit ugly (if ugly was thing of degrees). At her desk she was very refined, back gently curved as if a flower in repose. With Carver her eyes flashed like lightning all fervent and passionate because they were selling something, constantly selling. And on the phone at night she was seductive. Her voice, even her short dubious puffs and grating irony, ran shivers through him like broken nails on bare skin. Everything about her appealed to him. Including (by necessity) her pride. You couldn't have Alex and not have her pride they were conjoined twins. Currently she reeked of pride. Currently he let her have her pride. Even though it created a thick wooden wedge between them.

"I was stupid to think an office relationship could work." She went on. And he knew that that bit of bite was for him too not just Carver. He knew she wouldn't feel right until she'd reduced every liable connection to nothing. Until she gotten as far away from being weak as she could. Alex knew how to survive - she was a widow, she was Major Case, she was a woman. "I was stupid to think there are any secrets when emotions are involved. I will _never_ do that again." She wanted to make sure he got the point. It wasn't going to happen for them.

"Message received." He enunciated with annoyance because it was hurting now.

This was the most they'd said to each other about their clandestine relationship in the light of day. By tacit agreement their phonecalls and near misses stayed in a bubble somewhere.

"I just think we should take a break." She murmured.

He lowered his window. The cabin of the SUV felt dense and grey and claustrophobic. He needed multi-sensory stimulation. He need true colour. He needed the whip of the cold air even if it made his eyes water. It worked, the gusts slapped his cheeks like a prizefighter's manager and that was how he found his own mean.

"A break?" He turned and spat. "You never even let us get going. A break from nothing."

Pain all around.

She'd asked for it. She was taking her resentments toward Ron and their tryst and heaping them on Bobby. Poor Bobby she liked him (maybe even loved him) and he had to pay for that. _**Slice out the gangrene never mind the chunk of healthy flesh you take with it.**_

"Fine. If it was nothing then move on. I will too. Co-workers, period."

"Fine by me." He didn't dare look at her. _**If she's a doll then she is the meanest barbie on the shelf**_, he thought. His right bicep twitched with anger, then his left was at it too.

There were no words.

Only the whir and bump of the road.

Only cinched faces.

His facade cracked first.

"I'm glad you untangled yourself from Carver. He's borderline sociopath you know? Don't be surprised if you have to tell him a few more times before it sinks in."

"I was clear. He gets it. Ron is okay." She said mildly she wasn't going to start trash talking him just because it was over.

Bobby choked out a noise. A growl? A grunt?

"What?" She demanded.

"Don't defend him or I'll lose my breakfast, that's what."

"I'm not defending him." Ron didn't need a champion, Ron was more then capable of garrotting his own enemies.

Bobby was baffled and repulsed by her behaviour. _**Like me!**_ He wanted to scream. _**Need me!**_ _**Defend me!**_ It felt awful, this unrequited affection. It was the 16th circle of hell - a plane of existence tailor made for him - the sum of lust, anger and treachery. "What in the hell do you see in that guy anyway?"

"What does anyone see in anyone?"

"Warmth, kindness, selflessness." His words were a commentary on Carver's shortcomings.

"Show me a cop or a lawyer that isn't an asshole." Not that she wanted to be kept by some asshole. But the qualities he listed, the better angels of human nature, sounded so childish to her new grown up ears.

"Wow. That's a high bar." He dripped sarcasm. He felt despair. She had gone off and formed another layer of scar tissue for him to hack through.

"Oh and you're going to treat me right?" She laughed at the absurdity clenching on the steering wheel. "You're going to take me away from all this?" She whacked it.

"Maybe I am. Maybe we fit."

"We don't fit."

"Let's have a glass of wine and spread your legs first."

She turned a stunned quarter revolution, her pupils suspended in a cloud."You want to do this here Goren? Really? You want to get dirty on the job?"

"May as well, since apparently you're cutting me loose." His eyes attacked her.

"I just got out of a relationship with a master of the universe! Maybe I need a week before I crawl into bed with you!"

"Relationship my ass. You were enemies with benefits, you didn't even like him." She was surprised at how astute he was. Though she shouldn't have been, Robert Goren's third eye never blinked. "And don't flatter yourself about how covert you were, I've known for over a year."

A trickle of ice cold ran through her. It was the worst news for someone ashamed, someone who'd already struck a humiliation posture. Alex immediately pulled hard left, a sharp swerve into a transport truck weighing station and threw it into park. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me. I knew what was going on and I was matching you screw for screw."

Her head flew back her, jaw loosened. "Is that what your overactive sex drive was all about? Is that why you picked every bimbo within arm's reach? So I would see?" She'd been sick about his choices. She'd all but fashioned voodoo dolls and stuck pins in their stupid little heads.

"Don't flatter yourself." He yelled because she had it exactly right.

She looked at him inches away only a gear shift for amour. Sitting there in his suit, filling up more then his share of the cabin. His grey legs were splayed and his jackets were unbuttoned. Suddenly he seemed dangerous.

"Let's calm down." The words were deja vu on her tongue. His unpredictability (his latent anger) always led to misbehaviour. If Goren hit a certain pitch cataclysm followed.

"No." And before she could challenge again he came across the console and took her mouth.

She bucked free all smeared lipstick and outrage. "What are you doing?"

He sat back, coiled like a cobra. "You know what I'm doing." She did know. He'd been laying in wait. She was finally free, the flag had dropped.

A zing shot through her, to be in his sights was... _**Adrenaline junkie. **_She licked her lips, just a little, just a peek of pink darting out and around. She tasted him on her.

"We can't keep doing this dance Bobby."

"Okay." But he had fixed on her mouth.

"I'm not a conquest. This is complicated. I'm complicated."

"I wouldn't want you if you weren't." His mind needed something hearty to dig into. She imagined him sucking her bones after that meal.

"Help me…" She started then stopped. _**What? Help me stay away from you? How sad. **_

In the end neither sprang or grabbed. They just kind of drifted back to each other in equal measure. They met again over the arm rest. And it was the kind of kiss that felt like two years in the making. Soft, wet, plump tissue and throaty moans.

He claimed the high ground (of course) as his head almost scrapped the ceiling and she lengthened and twisted beneath him trying to keep up. The kiss was tinged with insanity the way he pushed her wide, the way he pressed into her. He wanted this badly, _so badly_.

"Stop." She panted into his mouth.

"You sure?" He drew back a little and she followed.

"No."

He smiled.

"Stop smiling." She demanded and bit his lower lip, a love bite, then plunged in again. She ran lightly over the ridge of his teeth then his soft palate, then plumbed a molar. This was more then a kiss this was an oral exam, an investigation, a pleasure pilgrimage.

"That was a first." He laughed.

"Good." She wanted to know things that other women didn't.

Then just like that she shed her skin. Her blazer and coat and scarf lay deflated in her seat and suddenly a light lithe thing in a tank top came at him sideways, jamming his head and back against the door.

"What happened to never again?" He couldn't resist goading her with words she'd used only minutes ago.

"My prerogative, my terms." And she pushed his head to one side and fixed her lips to his jaw.

As he sat there pinned by her assault he consciously submitted to her. He had never thought the bitch thing would work so well on him but it did. The more self-confidence this woman displayed the harder he got. Eventually after she tasted his lobe and neck he grabbed her face, a big hand on her chin and he took mouth again.

"Come here. Come over." He was begging now. Begging for the weight of her on his lap.

And that was when she broke free, as if some hypnotist had snapped fingers and broken the suggestion. In an abrupt motion she planted back firmly in the drivers seat then turned and started the car. And before he could regain powers of speech, she had steered them back into traffic. She poured on the windshield wiper fluid and the real world came into hyper-focus. Something was lost with that clarity.

Bobby sat there shocked and throbbing. God she was cruel. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. Then he poked her bare shoulder _hard_.

"Ow. What?" She snapped.

"Sorry you're just the first convincing piece of artificial intelligence I've ever seen."

"Funny."

He looked closer and now he saw it: parted lips, an even deeper flush, her chest rising and falling a fraction too quickly. She was affected all right, she was affected and scared of that affection. And the surge of joy he felt at that. From despair to joy in 10 minutes, such was this fucked up beautiful partnership.

"I meant what I said." She shot him a quick look with veiled eyes. "I need time."

"Fine. Let me know."

It was a bizarrely calm exchange, not unlike one they'd had this morning:

'_**Hand me that pencil'**_

'_**I'm using it.' **_

'_**I need it.' **_

'_**When I'm done.' **_

'_**Fine. Let me know.'**_

* * *

"Detective. A word." All three of them paused on their path and blinked at one another, until it became clear that Carver was speaking exclusively to Goren. Eames glanced nervously between the men but walked on ahead to give them a moment. She entered and took a seat inside of the ADA's masculine, tome-lined, wooden office. She crossed her legs tightly and tugged at her black turtleneck, her monochromatic sheath of androgyny. She refused to worry about what was keeping the men out in the hallway, although she was losing feeling in her crotch from the severe set of her legs. She didn't need to worry, she had bowed out, this was none of her business. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. _**Just waiting for my co-workers** _she repeated. Still she jumped when they entered the room.

Alex looked from A to B to A again, neither betrayed a thing. _**Good. Professionalism. This wasn't going to be difficult at all**_. She immediately turned their attention to the Kittridge casefile. "The ME said if he had an aneurysm he'd have headaches and dizziness not just fatigue."

"That's why he doesn't see her in the evenings because in the early stages of Alzheimer's that's when the symptoms appear. He - he lied to her." Goren explained and burrowed into a ball, because this civilized professional banter was an act. _**No hard feelings. Yeah right. **_

"Or he did tell her he has Alzheimer's and she's keeping the secret." Carver issued flipply.

"The disease is inherited Nick could pass it to their kids I can't imagine any woman having children under those circumstances."

"So Spencer Durning and his son are deceiving this poor woman just to produce an heir?" Carver rang incredulous.

"No. A spare. If they can't find a cure for Nicholas, Durning will use this grandchild to retain control over the foundation."

"That would be detestable and so far unprovable."

"Will a show and tell help? It's our turn to call a bluff."

"Ah a trick." The lawyer's look was knowing. "Sure call me when you have something concrete." And with a sweep of his overcoat and attache Ron was gone.

"That wasn't so bad." Alex murmured after a few moments of silence. "I think you two played very nicely together."

"Of course he threatened me on the way in."

"What!?" She whipped around and hit her leg on the solid mahogany table. "No he didn't." She denied because it was absurd.

"I told you he's a sociopath." Bobby shook his head "He compartmentalizes."

"What did he say?"

"Section 132, subsection 4."

Her furrowed brow said it all.

"It's the passage in the code of conduct, specifically relating to fraternization: of partners, subordinates and equally employed individuals inside the New York City police department. It outlines potential disciplinary action to be taken."

"How would you even know that?" She shook her head.

"I read it." He had read it once 12 years ago (and then again 12 hours ago) after she'd almost mounted him in a requisitioned police SUV. Because he was doing this. He was going to have Alexandra Eames, and no act of God, NYPD regulation, or Ronald Carver were going to stop him. Know thine enemy was rule number one, so Bobby'd set out to understand the potential consequences, and the hot buttons, of the small lawyer wielding them. Anyway, machinations aside, Bobby liked reading texts that were neatly sectioned. Especially ones with sequential numerical reference points such as: medical journals, declarations, codified law, footnotes, contracts, religious doctrine. The information always proved easier to retrieve inside his memory palace.

"Of course you did." He was the scariest thing Alex had ever met, and she once met a guy who'd taken a bite out of his mother's corpse.

"He wasn't being nice today. He was being Carver. _Read the subtext._"

"Are you saying I'm slow?"

"No. You're single minded and emotionally involved." He advanced on her. She backed up to let him pass, but he didn't want to pass, he wanted to box her in between the cabinet and the wall. He wanted to see what this news about her former lover would do. Would it make her scratch and hiss or relent? Also this was _his_ office and Bobby was of a mind to defile it.

"Not here." She whispered a quiver in her voice.

"He called you his property." Bobby whispered back, " And now he's warning men away."

She looked up and over baring her neck, "Who should I let manipulate me today? You or him?"

"Me. Definitely me." He got even closer, his body pressed hers. He sniffed her hair.

"You're sniffing me." She murmured into his raspy cheek.

"I do that."

"I know. I just wonder how I stack up, you know, to all the corpses."

He filled his nose again. "You're my baseline."

She smiled in spite of herself. That was probably the most romantic thing a man had ever said to her.

He went in for the kiss. Her palms came up flat against his chest and stopped him.

"Just so you know I'm only letting you do this because it's poetic justice."

He nodded.

And so he kissed her for the second time in a day, with her back against the glass-fronted curio cabinet, beside a framed photo of little Freddy, a trifecta of curling trophies and beneath a matted image of the star spangled banner.


	18. Chapter 18

**CHERRY RED**

Alex descended the steep narrow stairwell over the drone of Detective Marcus Appleton. He was leading a special task force assigned to fraud in the HPD (Department of Housing Preservation and Development) and he wanted answers. As she moved Alex attuned to the details of foul play. There were divots in the wooden railing from nails and teeth. There were black scuffs on the lower third of the wall from sensible shoes seeking purchase. There were flecks of maroon dotted (and smeared) all over the pitted dingy concrete.

Alex also catalogued disturbances in the energy, a subliminal awareness of kinetic leftovers. _That_ wasn't something a cop ever said aloud. Cops liked batons and bullets and procedure but there were grand intuitive leaps required to propel their pursuit criminals. First the speculation then the evidence. Speculation, evidence. Speculation, evidence. Imagining where the perp stood, imagining the momentum of a blade or the exertion of a push lay comfortably in the realm of the 6th sense. At the bottom Bobby was a big ball of black overcoat. He used single pale finger to prod the expired form of Katherine Finoff.

"Well can we make the task force's day?" Alex joined him on her haunches.

"Well it depends on what she tells us right?" Together they leaned into their mission and she immediately knew, just from the quality of his crouch that he was lighter today. Lightness in murder was a very delicate undertaking. They were 'allowed' levity. But not in traditional ways. Ribald jokes and cabalish cackles were out of the question. Instead there was a playfulness in the way his fingers tickled the air, in the way he confidently blended science and junk science:

_**"So she was coming down the left hand side when she tripped." Alex issued a supposition.**_

_**"Which is odd seeing as how she's right handed."**_

_**"Ah…" a puff of genuine confusion. How the hell could he know that? Had they penned a novel together?**_

_**"Uh the gums on her left side recede more then the ones on the right. People brush more vigorously on the opposite side of their dominant hand."**_

_**Oh, of course.**_

There was no denying he was happy.

She was happy too.

Their relationship was standing still. They had still only had a handful of small intimacies. But for two people who had been stuck in different dimensions being at the starting line was as good as living together, being on the cusp of that romantic journey was invigorating. And, of course it didn't hurt that this case felt like an honest to goodness whodunit. This was going to be a fun. _**You're going to straight to hell.**_ _**Murder is not fun. **_Her conscience condemned.

Except when it was.

"Come on genius." She called heading right back up. "Let's see how she lived."

Inside Kate Finoff's modest flat were, thrift store prints, impressionist art posters, matryoshka dolls (genuine Russian made ones Bobby said), hand me down furniture and the trappings of a new pet owner. Cats. Alex hated cats. _**If I want to be ignored until mealtime I'll get a boyfriend**_ and in the next instance, **_maybe the cats pushed her down the stairs. _**Bobby proved a font of knowledge about cat allergies.

"I had a girlfriend Lola she had cats." He explained. Alex shot daggers. He was going to hell too, for invoking the name Lola. Now it seemed even the ones that pre-dated her were pissing her off.

"You ate furballs for her?" _**And was she also a showgirl?**_ The inner monologue never quit. Alex sped away from Bobby (and Lola) to explore the apartment solo. "Maybe she did it for a boyfriend, birth control pills!" Alex called quite gamely from inside the vic's medicine cabinet.

And Bobby wondered, with his hands clasped behind his back and his mind between his legs, if Eames was on birth control, if he would have to wear a condom when he pushed inside her. There was an old theory about men and sex. In Bobby's estimation every 7 seconds was a gross overestimation. Unless of course you were half of a coed crime fighting team that spent an average 11 hours a day together, 5 to 6 days a week. Under that specific set of circumstances thoughts of parting your partner's thighs came more like once every 5 seconds.

_**Once every 5 seconds that was 17280 times a in a 24 hour cycle. Factor for sleep - 6 hours of oblivion optimistically **_(although he had had quite the dream about her the other night)_** and that means in an approximate 30 day month, I think about screwing Eames...**_

The sudden appearance of the landlady put violent end to his mathematica erotica.

* * *

"What was the wheelbase on this one?"

"108 inches."

"Ford Shelby GT 500. '67 for sure the guy's using original stock tires. I mean, I don't see any wear in them." Lewis' voice rang incredulous as Bobby fussed over his visual aids. The two men had been sequestered in this room for over an hour pinning pretty pictures and speculating about some of the most beautiful cars ever conceived. And the cloud of camaraderie was thick. With all of this smiling and ribbing it didn't even feel like work at all.

"Detective Alex." Lewis sprung up suddenly and rubbed his hands with debauched glee. Alex liked Bobby's little friend. His good natured nervous energy and his flattering interest in her were just plain fun. The room felt fresh and zesty with Lewis in it.

"Down boy." She tossed back shyly. Alex watched her partner with his friend. This was a fully evolved intimate masculine relationship. Two men that hugged like that - full body contact - knew each other very well. She had never asked Bobby about Lewis. She'd never asked him about anything. Keeping her walls fortified had been more important than any passing curiosities. But now she wondered. Where had they met? Military? College? No not long enough. High school. _**Yeah high school.**_ And Bobby called him Lewis even though his name was Chris. When do men use surnames? Alex quizzed herself. She'd bet the load they'd played some sport together. Football? Basketball?

Her eye moved back to Lewis. He was reasonably good looking. He was casual but smartly dressed. His surname was on the company letterhead, so he was definitely a successful entrepreneur. But those tinted glasses… weird. Her money said non-conformist. Or no. No! A shop floor accident. _**A welder's flash.**_ Light sensitive eyes. These fluorescent tubes would be a real bitch to damaged eyes. Her Uncle Roy had gotten one too many welder's flashes and lost the vision in his left eye.

Perp? Potential suitor? Partner's friend? It didn't matter Alex used the same skill set to delve deep then she ever had. Bobby deferred to Lewis as an expert. Her partner only did that when he was in the sphere of a master. So Alex guessed that he wasn't just a certified auto tech but perhaps one with a diploma in classic car restoration? And Lewis was definitely a man with decades of practical application. _**Of course. The Mustang. **_It made perfect sense now (a real wonder it hadn't before). This was where it had come from and how it stayed in good repair.

This case _was_ fun.

"Good bye detective." The mechanic sing-songed as he left.

'So soon?' Alex wanted to rebutt but Deakins' was there grim faced, haunting the corners and waiting for his progress report.

* * *

The takedown.

She watched Bobby regress to a small boy in the thrall of a cherry red Ferrari.

"You have to come out now." She deadpanned.

He looked up from inside the tight interior with startled eyes.

"Ask her out on a date you're almost the same age." Alex called back following Roger Coffman to the squad car.

"You're very funny." He returned, hanging out of the classic car, his head swimming with the scent leather and wax, his fingers gripping the hand stitched steering wheel.

"And you're still in the car." She was laughing now, her mirth bouncing off the walls of the garage.

He did eventually emerge from his (and Roger's) wet dream. They decided to stop for a bite in the lull between booking and interrogation. Alex chose an old brown leather booth sliding her bottom over a tear patched with silver duct tape.

"I have to start a dossier: The Goren file." She smiled. She'd archived so much new information about him today. But details about Bobby dripped off of teaspoons rather then heaped in by the ladle. She wanted chronology, she wanted context. And she _didn't_ want to know why he was suddenly so fascinating.

"You _really didn't_ like me." He said as the waitress clanked his sandwich down along with a basket of golden french fries.

Her stomach rumbled. "Why do you say that now?"

"Because I have a CIA level file on you." He held his fingers an inch apart.

"_Didn't_ like you..." She rolled her eyes.

"Ha ha." He said and tucked into a late lunch.

"So." She sipped a mug of green tea. "Lewis was in good form."

"Yeah. So helpful." He took a bite of his sandwich and flicked the red mesh basket her way. She'd said she wasn't hungry. She'd ordered tea. They didn't stand on ceremony the rule was 'when nature calls, answer' _whatever_ natural urges needed filling. But he could feel her tracking his food with her eyes. "You on some kind of diet?" He asked his gob crammed to overflowing.

"A cleanse." She bit out. _**Can I have a secret? Just one damn secret.**_

"Don't lose an ounce." He commanded and she was at once girlishly flattered and completely put off (mostly by the fact that she was flattered).

"Does he have a girlfriend?" Alex asked at one point. "Lewis." Then picked up a huge fry, cut to two of her finger widths at least. So much for detoxification.

"Forget it." He answered.

"Forget what? I asked you a question."

"Forget Lewis. He's chronically in love and terminally single."

"So he's single." She clarified angrily.

Bobby set his sandwich down a little slap dash and the bread and pickles separated from the pastrami."Yeah he's single."

"That wasn't so hard was it?"

It had been hard. Like choking on a fist of ciabatta. Especially now, because now he had to tell her. "He wants to ask you out. He asked me to test the waters for him." Bobby said at last.

"He asked you today?" _She knew it._

He nodded. "Yeah today. And you aren't available."

"You don't own me Goren."

"So you want to date Lewis now?" He was incredulous.

"Don't you think it would make life easier?"

"Whose life? He's my best friend."

"I meant if we got involved with people far far from that incestuous pit we work in."

"No I don't" He leaned in close. "And all acts against us are treason."

"Again. _You don't own me_." Her teeth gritted.

"What are we doing here Alex?" He slammed his hands on the table, his appetite gone. "Now you think it's a good idea to fuck my best friend?"

"Calm the hell down." Her whisper was harsh, "Who said anything about fucking? G_od Bobby! _This is exactly why _we_ shouldn't happen."

He sighed from his soul. He was so tired of this. This stalling, this pretending. It was all horseshit. She was getting off on playing keep-away. Power. Power. Who has the power. Every kiss wasn't a small victory it was Alex buying time to rearm.

"Are you in this Alex?" He asked at last. "Are we moving toward a relationship?" He just wanted to hear it. No more games.

"I d-don't know."

"Not good enough." His voice was too loud for the diner, it rose above the din of dialogue and dishes and the hollers of 'order up', people looked at them. "Are you in?" He insisted.

"Bobby, stop…"

"Are. You. In?" He yelled, patrons be damned.

Her answer was a robust breath that blew up the corners of his napkin. She pressed the heel of her palm to a spot just above her right eye where a kamikazee headache was screeching in. "I can't give you that."

"Why?"

"Because it's all I have." And wasn't that the truth.

His groan was a dissertation on frustration. "I can't have this conversation. I'll take the subway back." And he stood and left. Just like that. His empty spot in the booth felt like a slap in the face. And she felt compelled to go after him, to reassure him, to reassure herself. Her troubled tummy drove her out and onto the sidewalk. She stopped there in front of the building looking back and forth. Desperate for a glimpse of him.

"Ah ha." Came the sound of slick victory from 10 steps away. He was there at a newsstand. The crafty bastard was thumbing through the latest issue of Time Magazine. She could see Donald Rumsfeld's blue jowls and hairy eyeball gazing out from the front cover.

"Ah ha? What? Is this one of your tricks?" Yep. He'd got her. She'd run after her man.

"Tricks?"

"You know psychological experiments. I feel like my life is a control group."

"Control group." He pshawed "You're patient zero. You started the disease. Trust me _this_ is a disease." He slapped down the periodical and folded into the pedestrian wave. She rushed forward and easily kept pace. "I can't stop." He said to her and no one. "You show your hand and I get a buzz. I keep trying to get you to care. Thank you for making me petty."

Spontaneously she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the doorway of a shop. A random alcove which ended up being Madam Toulmin's Mystical World: Clairvoyants, Tarot, Palm Readings. Plenty of privacy. **_W__**h**o would want to get into this place?_ **Alex thought.

"I do care." She barked, looking up angrily. "I like you. Alright?"

"Like? You _like_ me? The way Sally Biltmore _liked_ me in grade 2? Stop you're making me dizzy."

"Oh shut up." This was hard for her.

He could feel her straddling pride and prejudice and panic here in this mystical reprieve from New York. He looked around at the painted blue pictorial of the whirls and eddies of the human unconscious all around them.

"You make me want to… I mean, I like you more than anyone else." Coincidentally she settled on exactly what Sally Biltmore had said.

"Anyone? Really? Anyone?" He probed.

"Anyone." She said firmly, (her mind found caveats - there was her dad of course, her brother and sister) but she would take a bullet for Bobby and it was a category of care - of stripped naked loyalty - that set him apart in every way.

"Show me." He took a step back, his body resting perfectly in the vee of a large shimmering gold letter Y.

"Show you how much I like you?"

He nodded and crossed his arms.

She was locked for a moment in indecision. She could hurl herself back onto sidewalk, into that push of people and never speak of this again. She could kiss him until he was gasping and turgid. She could use the art of persuasion, she hadn't been given this sharp tongue and mind for nothing. But there was one other option.

She moved to him, just a single pace and a small shuffle, bridging the gap in that tight enclosure. She took his forearms and slowly unwound them and tucked them down against his sides. He let them hang there limp and heavy, waiting. She unbuttoned the tortoise shell discs on his woolen coat then did the same to the suit beneath. She heard his breath catch when she slipped her arms inside, she heard it catch again when she locked her arms behind him. Then one more time when she let her cheek rest in the region of his heart.

"I'm not grieving… as much." She murmured, "and I'm not tired or delirious or hiding in the dark. I just really really like you."

He slid his hands up over her. Over the layers of fabric over the dull thrust of her weapon, over her cloaked featureless form. This was definitely daytime Alex. He couldn't really _feel_ anything of her except her acquiescence, her vulnerability, her warm cheek burrowing in. It puffed him up, firmed him up in response. Her softness made him a man. They stood there like that for a long time. Perhaps it was the best kind of embrace because they met as equals without the carnivorous need of previous unions. Something in him ached a little at the perfection of this simple hug. He brought a hand up and curled it around his approximation of her middle, over her boxy coat. Then he took his other hand and smoothed her hair and brow. Her hair felt like down. He stooped at the neck and pressed his mouth to her temple and she tipped her chin up and into it and smiled.

Her look of complete trust and contentment imprinted on him.

* * *

"Hey man! Long time no see."

Lewis and Bobby had a man-date the following evening. They greeted each other with choreographed hands and a thunderous hug.

"This is so overdue dude." Lewis smiled shrugging out of his leather coat and scarf. For Bobby it'd been so good to see his friend at 1PP that this offer of night out at Worthy's (a local bar) seemed like the only sensible thing to do. A lot of emotions were working through Bobby these days, love, lust and now with Lewis nostalgia and loneliness.

Lewis gestured for a waitress and ordered a beer. "I meant to ask yesterday, how's Frannie."

"She would tear you a new one if she heard you call her that." Bobby smirked. Frannie was Frances his mother.

"Don't I know it." Part of Lewis' charm was his laissez-faire attitude toward authority.

"She's good, m-may-maybe I could take you to see her sometime?" It was uncomfortable for Bobby to ask, given his mom's razor edge temper, and his lifelong embarrassment at her behaviour, but she was getting older and seeing people from the neighbourhood made her happy.

"Sure Bobby anything for you man." And that wasn't lip service. "She taking the meds?"

"Oh yeah, it's non-negotiable at Carmel Ridge."

"Good, good. You don't need her making shit for you at work."

He didn't deny it. Lewis knew. That was the thing about schizophrenia it wasn't neat or contained it bled all over everything. It was a God damn massacre of accusations and shame and silly phone calls and voices from the almighty. Schizophrenia had had Bobby in it's sights his entire life.

"So you're a busy guy." Lewis dragged him back.

"Uh huh, work is kicking my ass." He'd shed his tie but he was still wearing the suit, his new skin.

"I'll bet. But you like it." It wasn't a question Lewis could see the change in his friend now. Fulfillment looked good on Goren. He knew that Bobby without a challenge was a disaster in slow motion.

"I can't complain, more money, more autonomy, more respect."

"And Detective Alex." His friend drawled.

"The way you say that." Bobby rolled his eyes.

"She's hot."

"We've both done hotter."

"Look at you player." Lewis leaned back on his bar stool and took in the entirety of his friend.

"Player. Yeah right." Bobby looked down and swept his fingers over the sweat on the outside of his beer.

"Have you? Been spreading them?" A lewd look crossed his friend's face "That's a big building you work in, there's probably enough quality action in that place for what a decade? How long until retirement?" Lewis laughed.

"I've cracked some." Bobby didn't normally kiss and tell unless the telling served an ends. And in this this case he needed to be a guy's guy who didn't have time to think about his partner. "Too many in the last year. Soon they'll be forming a union."

Both men hooted back their lagers.

"What about you? Gettin' any?" Bobby asked.

"Sheila..."

"Fuuuuuuck not Sheila again." Lewis and Sheila, Sheila and Lewis, it'd been a running theme for the last decade. Sheila was crazy. Country music crazy. Slash your tires and tell your boss you liked hookers crazy.

"We're done. Finally, forever. She's getting married."

"Well Hallelujiah." Bobby raised an amber bottle and they clincked.

"Yeah she's someone else's problem now. What I need is a someone normal, on a scale of 1 to Sheila." He sobered, "Get me in with detective Alex."

"God you're like a dog with a boner." Bobby muttered. He felt a bitterness in his throat and it wasn't the beer. Possessiveness and irritation made a powder keg inside a man."She's not even your type."

"She's hot." Lewis said again. "And hotness is about more then a face and an ass. It's a quality. Am I right?"

Bobby nodded.

"She has something. Like she knows secrets. Like she doesn't take any shit. Like she could be _really_ soft."

"Check and check. But soft? Now I know you don't know her."

"That's what dating is for." Lewis pushed.

"She's also my partner pervert. And you're my friend. It's too messy."

"I get that. I do." But he still looked conflicted. **_God_ **Bobby wondered,_** is he in love with her? Could he be love a woman he doesn't even know?** _It was a very romantic idea, a very upsetting idea and very Lewis idea. Lewis blazed like a matchstick, he was all schemes and dreams and burned fingertips.

"I think she's in a relationship." Bobby said and meant to leave it there.

"With you?" And because the question was so pointed and poignant he looked up sharply. In that instant he knew he'd been had.

"Now I see. You won't hook us up because you want her for yourself! You dog." Lewis crowed out victory on a swig of beer.

"It's not like that."

"You aren't in her pants?"

"Watch it." Bobby warned he wasn't going to degrade Alex that way.

"Ohhh, I get it." And the two men warily locked eyes. One pair was full of giddy certainty, the other mortification.

"Get what?" Bobby murmured.

"You're waiting..."

"There's nothing going on..."

"...because you love her."

"I don't love her." His gut exploded like a supernova.

"Yeah man, you love her."

"New topic."


	19. Chapter 19

**ZOONOTIC**

There is Greek lore about a god named Pan. A being born of Odysseus and Penelope. He was a strange union of both man and beast. The barrel and arms of homosapien. Legs of fur and bowed horns, the tail of a goat, the snub nose of a hound, the pointed ears of a jackal and a thick sweeping beard. He was beguiling nonetheless and he wielded great power, luring nymphs with melodies from his flute. Pan roamed the countryside notoriously naked with tremendous appetites laying and mating in a frenzy of sexual desire. He was symbolic of the needs of the flesh and of the elemental connection between man and nature.

Pan was also the god gradually twisted to fit the skin of our devil. And in that shift came the perversion of pleasure. The devil, drunk with his power, seized souls and fed on them. He touched humanity in the way of music - that invisible force that compels us to think and emote and _move_. The Devil also found the gaps. The gaps in our makeup and education and crammed them with carnal urges: gluttony and power lust and greed and selfishness.

This case felt like the Devil and Pan and everything else earthy and right and wrong.

This case and everyone it touched caught a bit of the demon.

* * *

Two men of science. Both doctors. A burly square jawed cretin and his fey reedy companion. One large and lusty, the other lean and luring and manipulative not unlike that flute. Together they were a symbiotic sickness. The nymphs were now nurses, assistants, docents but still exploited by their affinity for art, opera and theatre and sculpture. And did this pair manipulate. Together they moved effortlessly across species lines. Syringes loaded and cocked with diseases tapped from swine and pteropine and bovine and murine and canine. There was something about Roger Stern and Scott Borman, something supernaturally endorsed, something that blurred the lines between man and animal, good and evil.

Of course it started with an underachiever. Detective Billy "Buzz" Davis was ambitious and unremarkable and dead in a cage. Not a cage, a full-height turnstile but the symbolism was undeniable.

"He's wearing a vest. He expected trouble." Goren flipped back the man's jacket and pulled on the thick black kevlar.

"He found it." Eames said grim about the mouth.

Buzz was no rockstar he was hand to mouth, gaming the system for a few extra bucks wherever he could, his hustles included: bargain cigarettes, blackmail and defrauding medicare defrauders.

"I'm not sayin' he was Serpico." That was the understatement of the century and from the lips of his captain outfitted head to toe Suffolk County dress beige, the latest in park ranger, zookeeper chic.

* * *

**_"Have you told anyone about me yet?" He sat enrobed in white holding a hairbrush and a belly full of malevolence._**

**_"There isn't much to tell yet other then outside a spa I've never seen so many jets in one shower." She came out and joined him wrapped in two huge glorious white towels. This apartment felt like a luxury hotel and he was a doctor. Eeek! She could just squeal. This was what it felt like to win the dating lottery._**

**_"I like a clean body." He grinned "You're so beautiful there really isn't a jealous boyfriend somewhere?" She wished for a moment he would stop looking at her that way. It was hard to describe. Vacant and yet busy._**

**_"No not for the last three years. I've gotten used to to being alone."_**

**_"From now on you'll be anything but alone." His touch was clinical. He stripped her. He inspected her but he never entered her. He just owned her._**

* * *

Bobby and Alex tumbled around a bit in Buzz's life but it wasn't until in that foursquare with a hooker, a ground floor room inside Micky's Hotel, that things started to sizzle. Her name was Angel. In a nutshell Angel thought Alex was cute, an impromptu menage a trois was okay and that cops were nosy and cheap.

"I tell ya, you give a guy a badge..." She smack talked and Bobby rolled his eyes and his head in defense of the brotherhood.

When Angel finally sauntered off with her LBD, her virtue and her sheet untouched the detectives hung back.

"She was funny." Bobby said in that way he had, that way that observed human folly but didn't get any of their mess on him.

"Yeah a real pro-comedian. If that whole sex for money thing falls through..." Alex let her lips twist pleased with herself.

"I agree with her." He said.

"What?" Alex tucked her badge back onto her belt. "You think all guys with badges are opportunist cheapskates?"

"Uh no." He tipped to her with amusement, "I agree that you're cute."

"Bobby." Her voice was loaded with censure.

He gestured with his head, a c'mere of sorts. A dangerous proposition as he was sitting on that shiny floral bedspread again and the door was locked and the room was reserved until 11am the next morning. He held out a hand and she looked at it like it was a stick of lit dynamite.

"Bad idea."

"Good idea. My best one of the day." he countered, "Don't overthink it."

He was right most days she thought so hard her brain cried uncle. Certain situations called for a little spontaneity. Which was why it really hadn't taken much for Alex to give in to her desire to feel him on a bed. She'd walked up cool as you please ignored the hand and sat quite cheekily on his lap.

"Like this?" She teased.

And she realized her mistake the moment her bottom met the firm plank of his thighs. He couldn't be toyed with. He couldn't temper himself now.

In the sweep of an eyelash he'd flipped her back and was ripping at the barriers. Then he was between her thighs. For the first time in her life (her recalled life) Alex felt helpless. They kissed yes, but the gist of this tussle were their belts and his hands ripping alternately at hers then his. He would later claim insanity. He'd just wanted to get inside her. Like blue fever. His only thoughts were base and id fuelled: _stick it in, jamb it it, get it in_. He had never been possessed in that way before.

"Bobby no. Bobby not here, not our first time." Coming from the only voice in the universe he ever truly listened to. And in fear of himself he sprung back, and off the bed and stumbled against the door. And then he apologized profusely. She sat up slowly a little tousled and a lot conflicted. And even over his clipped rapidfire "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry." Even over his 'Goren in distress' display - the head grabbing, the agitated pacing - part of her wished she hadn't been wearing a belt at all.

After that Bobby avoided her for days (as best he could). He used the rule of obstacles: one person or piece of furniture between them at all times. Because he felt a monster inside. He could have taken her there without consent or reason. He did know why. He'd been filled with something. Some kind of zeal, some kind of demon.

* * *

**_"So Scott what's your specialty."_**

**_"Hands on care."_**

**_He stalked around and around her with a obscene glint in his eye. She wanted to laugh at his innuendo and his shirt (last seasons Asian characters and short sleeves? In the evening? Really?) She looked down at her own cocktail dress and fingered her pixie do. The way he was staring. Her throat closed up. Her smile started to ache._**

**_"Roger has been keeping you under wraps. and now I see why."_**

**_She felt hunted._**

**_She felt inspected._**

**_She felt like he wanted to split her open._**

**_"I wonder what's keeping Roger?" She found her laugh now, wooden and worried._**

* * *

Bobby and Alex made a safari to the Hudson Zoo to observe the vainglorious Dr. Borman in his natural habitat. Once the doctor was in the operating theatre with his hyena they'd found the nearest exit and laughed like a herd of them. It didn't take much to muster up an impression,

"We're all mammals in here right ladies." Bobby feigned a bassy voice and a chesty swagger.

"The look on your face." She cried wiping her eyes.

"The look on yours, when he asked you to pass his scrubs."

"I was going to shove them down his throat." She gripped her sore middle. "You actually went and got them."

"I was defending your honour."

She guffawed, though she felt the truth in it. Bobby had been running interference. She had been protected in that room and not at all annoyed by his presumptive behaviour. She wouldn't cop to it of course. She wasn't going to tell him it had thrilled her and that she'd loved being tucked behind him.

"My hero." She lifted her shield of sarcasm.

"I try." He shot back.

It felt nice to be normal with him, _to laugh,_ no holds barred, they never did that. She slapped his arm lightly and edged past him in the tight corridor. Only to find herself whiplashed back and jammed her up against that private concrete wall. Suddenly he was rough and different. Just like that he had her mouth in his. He all but ate her. Who was the animal now?

And she shoved him away hard slamming her forearm into his chest. Then thought better of it pulled him back in and kissed him like a vortex. He cupped her and squeezed her and lifted her right off her feet. Like soul sucker prey she felt her energy being drawn out through her mouth. She wasn't docile. She ground hips and chest against him. And he pressed back, hard.

"Ow."

"You like it when it hurts." He said, she'd hurt him enough that he'd extrapolated. He kissed her again roughly.

Then just as suddenly. He went dead. He had an epiphany his fingers still digging into her rear like talons and body heaving with breath. "The women. Stern thinks he's an animal. Stern thinks Borman is a boar. They share the women. That's why..."

She nodded. Her breasts rising inflating against him. "Back to Megan Colby."

He nodded. And plopped her down.

With very little grace he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, it came away pink pearl and saliva, both hers. She tugged her shirt, pulled at her waistband. Then they turned and walked shoulder to shoulder, through industrial metal doors and out into the sunlight.

* * *

**_"Tish please you're having a bad reaction." She came tearing out of his immaculate bedroom like the devil was on her heels. She was running for her life. What if they overpowered her? What if they held her down and finished her off? She was alone and outnumbered._**

**_"A bad reaction. There's nothing wrong with me Roger, it's you. Take a look in the mirror." She swiped at tears of fear and rage and loathing. He reached for her and she recoiled. "I can't believe I almost… Don't! Just stay away from me." And she made it out of that den of iniquity, but barely. And tracked her through the peephole with one passive bitter eye. Now they would have to find another._**

**_His partner the one that did the wetwork sauntered out unfazed by all the revulsion "Stuck up little prude. Too bad we have to let this one go." He tightened his belt "I'm not kidding Roger we can't afford another mistake."_**

**_"Get past it Scott?" He was furious._**

* * *

They finally had a court mandate to ransack the apartment of Roger Stern. Alex had never felt so excited to ruffle someones hair, to spoil his unnatural order.

"Coffee?" She asked Bobby.

"Do we have time?"

She checked her watch. "The 2-4 said 10 sharp." Sharp was a variable concept in their experience and nothing would move until they arrived anyway, it wasn't as if they could miss their own hunt.

"Okay coffee."

They'd been together long enough that the city was carved into coffee districts. Gimme Coffee was small red brick building with a matching red awning. The cafe had a few things going for it, an easy curb side pull up and a bitter black breakfast brew. They alternated fetching duties. That Wednesday morning it was her turn.

Alex stood (another anonymous city dweller in another snaking line) tapping an impatient toe and fighting a yawn. The smell was intoxicating. She was tempted to pull her badge just to jump the cue and get that beverage into her belly 5 patrons sooner. She had been up until 2am scrubbing the sticky drippings from the fruit and vegetable drawers of her fridge. The behaviour was a holdover.

When Alexandra Eames couldn't sleep she cleaned. Her mother had been a real night person. When Alex remembered her tweens and teens it was always the nights, that slow slide toward sleep. Drifting off to a lullaby of clanking and clattering rising from the kitchen directly beneath her bed. There was something comforting in knowing that her mom was preparing lunches, and emptying the dishwasher. A reassuring racket. Now when she couldn't sleep she found the spirit of her mother in those nocturnal chores.

These days sleep was scarce. For some reason her head was full, absolutely stuffed with contradictions and cases _and Bobby_. And so on Sunday it was the grout around the tub with a toothbrush. And on Monday the windows and screens. Her apartment had never looked so good.

"Next!"

The cashier's firm young voice had her blinking back to reality. She'd finally reached the counter,

"Two large leftist espressos, a breve and an Americano, to go." She said and just like that her partner swept in from somewhere beyond the line and joined her. Bobby was supposed to be in the car. But 'supposed to' didn't cast a massive shadow. She gave him a quizzical look.

"What?" Her voice shook a little because this was exactly the kind of small unpredictable insurgence that was driving her to distraction. Suddenly he wasn't playing by their rules.

"And this." He aligned behind her reached around and slapped a biscotti down on the black granite countertop. Alex knew he hated packaged coffee shop biscotti. He called them sawdust.

**_He isn't playing by the rules,_** his only motive was to reach those big arms around her and lock her in. **_He isn't playing by the rules._ **When the barista turned away to steam and froth the milk. He pressed her to the ridge of the counter. **_He isn't playing by the rules_ **she felt the ridge of something else at the small of her back. He leaned over and whispered,

"No cream, no sugar. I forgot to tell you."

Now, after thousands of caffeine buzzes between them _that_ was the least newsworthy news of the millennium. She knew exactly how he took it. And like an ingenue straphanger in a rub-by assault she just stood there and wondered when they would both finally get off.

* * *

It was over.

The bad guys, _the animals_ were going away.

It was all finished but the paperwork.

Alex sat across from her partner scribbling away. She looked up and that was when she saw the distress. The thing about Bobby was that his body was a dead giveaway, at least to her. Every tick every twitch every rumpled brow and abrupt turn told her a story. And she knew that he felt deeply, too deeply. She had once taken him for self important and cavalier in fact it was the opposite he could be destroyed by his deep empathy so he distanced. Most days he was struggling not to drown in it.

"What is it?" She asked as he gripped his forehead and a sheet of paper.

"The South African source for Stern's anthrax, he told the FBI he gave Stern five grams of the stuff but our lab only found three in Stern's collection."

Yes, it was over but the smell of soured victory was rank.


	20. Chapter 20

**A PERSON OF INTEREST**

It was back. The anthrax. Or the spectre of it anyway.

Time had passed and she and Bobby had sailed away on that amnesiac sea. The same waters they sailed after every victory. Success was a very nuanced thing. They were but a slender layer of it, dependant on the system above or below to work as hard as they did. The forgetting was the way they coped with the scope of crime and criminality and with courtroom technicalities. Forgetting was the only way to appreciate their contribution and not lament their limitations.

But it was back. The anthrax. The missing quantity from Dr. Roger Stern's collection. He played dumb. He was dumb. From inside, from Sing Sing, now he was deaf and blind as well. He busied himself by manipulating people into a second, third and fourth visit. The last time they had seen Roger Stern he'd looked haunted. He was missing an incisor and Alex had spotted a scar peeking out from under the sleeve of his jumpsuit. Crudely drawn, maybe with a determined fingernail or a sharpened toothbrush or seared in with hot metal. She'd seen the mark before on other claimed men. A bitchmark. Roger Stern had a boyfriend.

"I told you I didn't sell or give any of my anthrax away." And then a sneaky smile. And then a lazy gaze slithered down to the floor. And then he added, "Not all of it anyway."

Games, games, games.

He was useless to them.

* * *

So they started at the beginning Connie Matson with her cracked skull and her furtive behaviour. Her murder had an eerie similarity to Buzz Davis. Alex stood in Matson's cosy living room teeming with cops and CI's and wondered why. Different MO, different genders, different careers and yet the same. Another underachieving soldier in the government's army who had decided to climb out of obscurity by any means necessary.

Bills for boosters, that was Connie's racket.

So many people walked the line.

And within 24 hours they had a heaven sent, bonafide suspect in the form of Dan Croydon of Haznostics. From the very beginning Bobby had been absolutely rabid about Croydon's guilt.

"Dial it back." Alex commanded.

"What?"

"I said _dial it back._"

And she remembered the last time she had cautioned him that he was losing perspective. Croydon was no Wallace, thank God. Dan Croydon was a blow hard with an inflated sense of importance but Alex saw something in her partner. A twisted glee. A glee at persecuting rather than lawfully prosecuting.

"He's the guy. Ego, associations, authority complex. The garnished wages are the financial icing." Bobby insisted.

She nodded. She agreed completely _right now_ but they were still on the surface, they hadn't begun to dig yet. And there were more negative niggles of intuition as they sat before Croydon's ex-wife. Her partner's behaviour! Alex had never seen Bobby inject so much of himself into an investigation. She could feel him swelling as the facts rolled in to support his preconceptions. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"Hey look at me," She actually reached across the console later in the car, she took his chin in hand and turned his head. "Look at me."

His eyes were hazy and disconnected.

"What?"

"The wife couldn't get a word in edgewise. And what she did say described a self absorbed workaholic, without any follow through, it doesn't stand up."

"How can you say that? He's a legend in his own mind. He doesn't give a damn about anyone but himself and he's cash strapped." Bobby pulled her hand off his face and let it drop. And that _stung._ After months of closeness, after fighting off his advances, after _finally_ acknowledging her own swelling desire, after clicking tickety boo down their professional track, to have him shun her touch, to have her reservations not rate, it made her sad and it made her mean.

"Don't go off like some half-cocked fool, damn the consequences. Maybe you have more in common with Croydon then you think." Again that old case came floating back, that old rogue Bobby and his daily solo trips to Hudson University to play with Nicole. Alex brought worried fingernails to her mouth and raked them back and forth.

And Bobby, firm in his convictions and thoroughly annoyed with her dissension, didn't touch her for the rest of the day.

He didn't even look at her.

Not once.

* * *

"Dr. Croydon would you be willing to take a blood test to prove that you haven't been exposed to anthrax or recently vaccinated for anthrax?" Bobby demanded over flashbulbs and microphones.

Alex watched, her stomach churning from her perch against a patrol car. Bobby was in some kind of fugue state hunting this man with a single minded intent that scared her a little. When was the last time they had interjected at a press conference? Once. And on that occasion they had been requested. She had wanted to rip off his shades to see if his pupils had been replaced by whirling discs.

She called him that night. _She called him,_ he didn't call her, that was new. He was distancing.

"What are you doing?" She asked settled in on her couch in her sweats ready to resolve this, ready to get back to them. But he wasn't.

"I'm tired. This case… Can we just talk tomorrow?"

Alex stared at the handset and felt something throb in her throat. _**What's this? Tears? Toughen up you wimp.** _She yelled like a drill sergeant over the drone of dial tone.

* * *

There was something building behind this case something sinister, something bigger. An unseen hand worked the pump. Everything was fuller, rounder, tauter. The bloat of it worked under the epidermal layers and up under limbs and inside their fleshy heads. The bloat filled rooms, pushed everyone uncomfortably out until they were enveloped by walls and coated creatures gripping their heads and screaming for relief. It wasn't an illusion, the threat of combustion, the feeling that a pin prick of anger, a razor's edge of maladjustment or the fingernails of passion might release - to catastrophic effect - the full weight of all this pent up crud.

And then it exploded.

He killed himself.

Dan Croydon hung himself in the shower stall of anonymous hotel room. And perspective was restored in one devastating flash. Watching him hang there Alex felt a rage inside it wasn't only the hippocratic oath that demanded Primum non nocere: First do no harm, it was a law enforcement oath as well. They were here to serve and protect and uphold. Her partner had violated that. Bobby had lost sight of the good and Alex wasn't afraid to let him know how disgusted she was.

"I would never say anything in front of the captain…"

"Everything pointed to Croydon." His indignation was there but not an eighth as righteous.

"You didn't listen Bobby. You didn't listen to what his wife said." She stood and left him there, in a state. The weight of his pursuit, and now pace of his plummet were disorienting. He had vertigo. He had nothing to hold onto. His misconceptions were cold comfort and his touchstone was gone. He slammed the bulletin board in utter disgust. In vicious self-loathing. At last he realized he couldn't calm or orient himself alone.

He needed her.

Seeking solace he got into the elevator. He followed her to their subterranean office, a corner of the parking garage where there weren't cameras or prying eyes.

"You should take the day." Alex told him shaking her head.

"You mean you don't want to see me."

"Just take the day." She barked, turning to leave.

"Don't turn your back on me Alex."

"A man lost his life. He wasn't my friend, or your friend, or brother, or son, or father, or husband, but he was someone's! And we have to think about our role in that."

"You mean me. You mean I have to think about what I did." His gut heaved."I'm sorry."

"It's a little late for that."

"So what? Now you see it. Now you see that I'm just a man and you don't like it. I made a mistake!" He had hoped she might be soft, he had hoped she might forgive him or even touch him or hold him. It felt like the whole city was beying for his blood.

"Just take the day." She said and walked away.

* * *

And then the truth emerged and there was enough egg for everyone's face to get a glazing. Alex felt her anger slip away and a little shame creep in as he listed the ways in which they'd been duped and he'd been framed.

"If you don't incinerate Bentonite at a very high temperature it leaves a residue…"

"The fingerprints were under the ink…"

"And this "Innocent man driven to suicide by ruthless and incompetent detective…"

And it was more then just them. The partnership, sure, it would be set to rights, she would know, Deakins, Carver maybe even the guys on in the bullpen would learn how he'd been set up, but the public, the people on the periphery likely wouldn't. His name, Detective Robert Goren, would forever be synonymous with this. It would colour future successes and taint the well for potential promotions. That was the thing about one major gaffe it could eclipse a lifetime of stellar records. Alex didn't know how he would handle this. Would he combust? Would he regroup? This had been their first real test and she had failed him. The trust was definitely dented.

"Lunch?" She asked.

"No. I'm keeping a low profile." And he didn't even look up. She ached with this distance. She couldn't figure out how the hell to bridge it.

"Call me tonight?" She tried again before leaving.

"I have something tonight, I won't be in." His smile was shallow. "See you tomorrow."

_**Won't be in? Won't be in? A date?** _How in the hell could he find a date in the middle of a crisis. _**You're jumping to conclusions.**_ No it was definitely a date. _**Or Carmel Ridge.**_ It was a fucking date. She almost couldn't breathe at the thought. It was the insanity of amour, they'd kept _them_ a secret, from the world, from each other and even from themselves and now she didn't know what was real.

Had they had something?

Had something been building?

Hadn't he loved her?

Suddenly they were so platonic it felt like all of their dalliances were a dream. Or a sick fantasy. He had never wanted her. How could he? He was dating. He wouldn't look at her. He wouldn't talk to her at least not in any real meaningful way.

_**Look at me dammit. Just look at me.**_

But the connection was gone. It was day one of their partnership again and she was invisible. And she felt this unreasonable panic.

"Bobby?" She called to him again across their desks. Thinking if each moment was it's own universe and not a follow on, then maybe in some future minute they would reset and be them again.

"Mmmm?" He just stared at her his face set with annoyance.

"Nothing."

* * *

The orchestrator of their downfall revealed herself during the dinner rush at Sal's Italian Restaurant in shimmering, golden fashion. She was a hot, bright nightmare with a quick wit and sharp knives. And unlike last time this time she reeked of money and influence. **_Of course, Nicole Wallace,_** he should have known. The stink of her was all over this disaster and she had promised him another dance.

"Do you remember what you said about Moby Dick and the unrelenting pursuit of evil. I know why you were unrelenting about Dr. Croydon. I know what it was about him that stuck to your hide like a harpoon. He ran out on his poor sick wife? Cheers Bobby. This was everything I'd hoped for."

He called a late night war room. Everyone assembled in Deakins' office as Bobby announced the return evil. He broke it all down, how she'd conducted their entire case, how they were all idiots but he was the biggest idiot of all.

Alex followed him into observation 3. That vicious bitch. Look at what she'd done to him. To them. He clung to that ledge like it was all that was keeping him upright.

"Croydon. She picked a man I already didn't trust, I already didn't respect. That's how she blindsided me. She ah…" and she heard his voice catch, "She picked a man like my father. She, she got me. She got me good."

"Then let's get her back."

Alex looked at him hunched in defeat. She wanted to cradle him, console him she wanted drop kick her badge and comfort her man. Because he was hers and she wanted to be on the inside again. She wanted be half of the special two again.

She wasn't going to fight this anymore.


	21. Chapter 21

Alex pulled along a very nondescript apartment block in Brooklyn, one in a row of siding clad rectangles that went on as far as the eye could register. She was looking for number 210. She had never been here before but she'd seen this address on so many pay stubs and close out forms that she felt like she had. As luck would have it a gold Toyota was pulling out as she arrived and she nipped into it's vacancy.

She trod up one storey and knocked on his door.

This was a bold maneuver. They had been very careful not to mix home and work, even now, even with scads of shenanigans going on. Home was still sacred. Home was a line that once crossed that couldn't be uncrossed. But then again they'd never had a day quite like this one before. He was hurting. And she knew that to be true because so was she. Sympathy pain. At least that was how it felt pacing her apartment relentlessly with a tickle deep in the tissue of her thigh and a low constant ache in her chest. She didn't want to know what it all meant. In another life Alexandra Eames might have been a scientist. She liked logic, reason and she liked to wrap her fingers around tangible things. This was very new and very unwelcome ground.

She knocked again.

"What?" He called through the wooden barrier. She could feel him eyeballing her so she turned her face to the peep hole.

"Let me in."

Silence.

"Come on Goren." She shuffled impatiently.

There was a click, flip, the creak of hinges and then a sliver of him appeared: an eye, an adam's apple, some buttons descending, his fly and a golden chain spanning the gap, holding her at bay.

"What are you doing here?"

"What am I? Dangerous?" She raised an annoyed hand and fingered the links of the chain.

"Very."

"Please." It was issued without hint of a plea. This 'please' was both a rebuttal and an order.

"We shouldn't be alone together…"

Her sigh was gusty she knew _that_ all too well.

"What are you doing here?" He asked again.

"Checking up on you."

"I'm fine."

"Let. Me. In." Her teeth were gritted and the words sounded feral.

He moved back suddenly feeling in danger of being attacked. He considered his predicament for 4 whole seconds before unlatching the chain.

"Bout time." She railed peeling off her damp coat and slapping it over the pony wall adjacent the door.

He turned and moved into the apartment. He showed her his back but his voice was clear as a summer's day. "Unless you came to fuck my blues away, go home."

She reeled just a little. He was vulgar when he hurt. He was sharp and punishing and dark. She saw a lot of things about him that she shouldn't have, illuminated by the gloom of his livingroom. She surveyed the components of his private space, a recliner, a low wooden coffee table, a floor lamp and leather couch. It was the house that brown built. In the corner sat a TV the kind with the big protruding tube not the sweet sleek modern style.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Not lately." He was still in his suit, a paired down version with no jacket, no tie some wiry hair revealed below his neck. She looked up (way up, because she was wearing her Chuck Taylors which lifted her all of a quarter of an inch) into his silent glowering face. Then she looked down (way down) no socks, just big, wide, bunioned, leathery feet. And it occurred to her that this was a man. _A real man._ Big and bitter and ballsy. "What do you want?" He asked again staring at her like a nuisance. Staring at her like a snack.

"I … uh… I " She was suddenly at a loss for words without their desks and badges and _protocol._

"Yeah I thought so." He fell into his recliner like he weighed a ton or maybe it was just the weight of his thoughts. The chair took it all gallantly. She moved in front of him and screwed her courage to the sticking place.

"I want you." She said. Honesty _at fucking last_.

He looked up sharply. And she saw desire there. He couldn't hide it.

And something frantic in her said; **_Do it. Do it. Do it. Don't wimp out. Do it. If you don't do it it'll be over. This is it. This is all you're gonna get. Do it. Do it._**

So she did. She reached down and took her partners belt in hand.

"What are you…"

Then she undid it.

"Eames."

Then she unhooked him.

"God." He murmured.

Then she unzipped his fly, the _zuuuuup_ came concert with his sharp breath.

Before she could think she wriggled one intrepid hand under his waistband and deep inside his pants. He groaned.

"Sexual healing." She quipped and they both heaved out a single laugh. She freed him all soft and sloppy from the fabric, and _zing_, on a surge he was half up. She gave him a half smile then took her right hand and with a few efficient pumps had him to broad and vertical and happy.

"This is new." His voice was tight. "I thought we were going to tease forever."

"You need this tonight." She informed him. Then (this _was_ the night for surprises) she dropped to her knees and swallowed him whole. It was as abrupt, as raunchy, as submissive an act as either had ever participated in, _ever._ She could smell his must. Her lips tickled by that mat of coarse wires. And he could only _feel,_ like one great big throbbing nerve. His hand came up and tightened in her hair. His thick fingers lodged tightly at her crown and his other gripped the armrest.

"Oh God Eames." He flung his head back and it bounced against the headrest and returned to upright.

And she looked up at him there mouth spread taking him in a rhythm, to a beat. She wanted to make him feel like a man, like a king, like he had dominion over everything the light touched. This act wasn't something a woman could do by halves. There was no such thing as a 'kind of' blowjob. You either committed to the pleasure and vagaries of it or you packed up your mouth and found some other pass time. She gave it her all. She gave him something unforgettable to help him forget. She hummed and gripped and tongued and rimmed _and porn starred_ him into paroxysms of pleasure.

But she didn't give him _that_ not yet.

She lay her palms on his enfabriced thighs and felt them seize, she felt all the clues that it was building in him. The tension rose off him as heat, there was a little shuffle of feet on cut pile carpet and then the broad parting of legs. She timed her withdrawal perfectly. With a dramatic pop of severed suction she skittered back and stood just out of reach.

"_Fuck!_" He looked down at his glistening member then at her raw mouth, he'd been well on his way.

Torture.

This was torture.

"I guess the teasing isn't over." He ground out.

Alex didn't speak. Instead she unbuttoned her denim, then she wriggled out of tight jeans and damp underwear. He went stalk still. His eyes widened. He couldn't believe he got to have her. There was something about this woman, even when she was playing the submissive, even down on her knees she was _always_ in control. But penetration was so intimate, so traditional. It required trust and surrender. It was a higher plane of intimacy. He got giddy. He reached for her with desperation. He caught the fabric of her sleeve and pulled her into his lap. He kissed her hard and hot, in ways that moved them.

"I have wanted this for _so long_." he confessed. And he touched her everywhere because he could.

Alex couldn't do words and she didn't make him wait. She grabbed him tightly and guided him inside, lowering onto his lap.

"I want to take you to bed. I want to do this right." He told her his voice dipping in and out distracted by her tight wet seal.

She grabbed his mouth with hers and bit his lip hard, blood hard.

"Ow."

Then she was like a wild animal digging in, biting again, pulling his hair. Rocking with a furious pace. And he fought to tame her. He grabbed her knobby handles, her hip bones, and slowed her down.

"I'm going to shoot my load if you don't stop that." He gasped.

"I don't wanna stop!" The words were an earthy grunt and she clenched on him. "Just fuck me. Fuck out the demons."

She wanted to_ feel_ him. And she did, the length and strength painfully prodding her womb because he was big and she was small and their impact on each other was profound. He sunk those long talkative fingers into her pale cheeks and helped her with pace.

"Harder." She demanded.

The recliner rocked and squeaked. He slammed and she bucked with the force of him. She laughed hysterically when she careened to the side and he almost slipped out but he righted her and just kept slamming.

She closed her eyes then because it was coming. She courted the sensation. She arched to meet it.

He watched her taut body and crinkled eyelids and insecurity attacked him.

"Say my name." He rumbled that unabashed cliche. Bobby wanted to know that she wasn't conjuring Carver or some other faceless fuck. **_Say my name._** Maybe once upon a time the phrase had been a natural stop gap on the savannah, in the absence of paternity tests and private eyes. A man just need to know. If he held his woman unexpectedly to account _did she know his body? Did she know his seed? Was he the only one in the world?_

He desperately wanted to be her one and only.

Because he could care about this woman.

Who was he kidding, he already did.

"Say my name." he demanded again and grabbed her throat with one big paw.

"Bobby." She cried and her eyes flew open. "_Oh God Bobby._"

That flipped him into overdrive, her off-key need. She needed _him._ It had both of them wrestling and then grinding and then thrusting and then tensing and then _coming and coming and coming_ and then panting hard. And at last they sat there in a timeless link.

Lucifer was gone. He wasn't so scary, he'd been exorcised by a man, a woman and a La-Z-boy.

Funny (odd, not ha ha) in that instant it became real. Post chutzpah, post exertion, post euphoria Alex found herself inside a strange Brooklyn apartment naked from the waist down straddling her co-worker. Her legs twitched, her centre ached and she felt a draft on her calves. It was frightening in that aftermath for her to think of all the ways in which she'd let go. _With her partner._

_**Shiiiiiiit.**_

And it was exactly like that inside her skull. It came out as one long, low, extended, self-recriminating vowel of horror. He immediately felt her regret. God he hoped it wasn't regret. Then he felt her hands and shins digging into the soft seat preparing to launch back and get away. He tensed in anticipation, holding her waist. His rigor created a standoff, it created a supermax prison.

"Let go." she demanded.

"No."

"Bobby…"

"This is the part where we really get close." He whispered.

"This is the part where I go home." She tugged a bit more and felt him slip limply from her body. "My work here is done." She was going for irrevent quipster but she didn't quite pull it off. Instead he tucked that iron band around her even more securely and set to work lowering the zipper of her hoodie. And what he found! Her smooth peachy breasts bubbled and spilled out of a cream and aqua push up.

"_Jesus Eames!_" His eyes were like saucers. And she giggled, actually giggled because now she knew what Yukon gold miners sounded like when they'd struck the big one. "These require further investigation." He mocked serious, cupping each breast with reverence.

"Is that your professional opinion detective." She tried to play it straight.

He got serious. "Stay the night."

"I shouldn't." This sexual explosion, had been building in them for a long time, over two years. But what now? This didn't have a future. If anyone from work got wind they would be out of a partnership before the afterglow had diffused.

"Yes you should." He aimed his face for her cleavage she played keep-away exquisitely, given her limited latitude.

"Say it's just sex." She demanded bowing back and bargaining with her body.

"Fine it's just sex." He rumbled.

"I don't want a boyfriend." She sliced and she was a bit scary in her certainty.

"Clearly." He shot back. He had never met a woman who was less girlfriend material in his life.

"I should go." She said, because she was 'bravado girl'. And he saw into her. She set rules no one could live up to because her heart craved deep authentic opposition.

"No stay. I'm sorry."

She listed her deal breakers. "No showering."

"_At all?_"

She slapped him, "Together."

"Okay." He nodded.

"No long lingering looks."

He sighed. "Okay.

"No cuddling."

"Next you'll say no kissing on the mouth." He muttered.

"Are you calling me a hooker?"

"No. Just a control freak." He'd had enough. Before she knew what he was doing he grabbed her inelegantly around the torso and at the crook of one leg and stood. His pants plummeted to his ankles a true tripping hazard.

"This is messed up." She gurgled from where she hung low. "You're going to drop me you idiot." One of her legs already dragged on the ground she pulled into a ball, bracing for the impact. And as he started to move there was nothing reassuring about his potato sack shuffle.

"I might fall on you, but I won't drop you." The least reassuring words ever spoken. Progress was slow but there was progress nonetheless and at last he tossed her into the soft wrinkled centre of an unmade bed.

_**Quelle surprise. Brown sheets.**_

"I think I see the wet spot from your last conquest." She snarked.

"That's drool. I didn't expect to be entertaining." He collapsed heavily atop her.

"You sure know how to make a girl feel special." From Egyption cotton to Kmart percale. She unwittingly compared him to Carver. **_Cruelty thy name is woman._**

_**It's frailty, not cruelty,**_ someone in her head said and she swore the correction had been in Goren's voice. He'd been inside her body and he owned her mind. The thought _really_ made her want to run. She squirmed a bit beneath him and her eyes darted to the door.

He felt her tiny rebellion. _This girl_ was always looking for an exit. "Submit." he demanded his big face an inch away.

"Never."

"Submit." He tried again drawing his tongue down her neck and chest. "I want to taste you." He kissed his way between her mounds and down her stomach moving back on his haunches.

"You'll taste yourself." She could feel his seed oozing out and dripping down her thigh.

His head sprung up on a thought. "You're on the pill right?" He never did that, he _never_ forgot. Of course she'd ambushed him, but he'd been ambushed before and managed to stay sharp.

"Yeah. Of course. Don't worry your pretty little head about it." She said, always in control. Infallible Eames. He wanted to take that power from her. Bobby was quickly finding that bedding her was like the worst days of their partnership all over again. A struggle for supremacy coupled with overwhelming closeness. "You're clean right?" She fired out caustically. "All those secretaries…"

"I'm always safe." _**Until tonight.**_

"Good because you've been a busy beaver." She just couldn't let it go. She couldn't be casual about his casual sex. She was hurt. Irrationally so.

"Be quiet." He pulled her body down harshly. Off the pillow until she was flat on her back, until she was fully under him and dwarfed by his great shadow. He stared down hard. "I take a lot of lip from you. You tiny thing." He said but his eyes were glowing with affection because she was beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking here in his bed. Her eyes rich and warm. Her skin glowing and creamy. Her body small and perfectly feminine. Her face was still set _like cement_, but hey, you couldn't have it all right away. She wouldn't be Alex if she wasn't work."Soften up." He set out on a course of belated seduction. "You can unclench with me." He murmured. He kissed her so softly, butterfly kisses, then nuzzles to her forehead, her nose, her ears. "I know you." He whispered. He slid his hand down her forearm and kissed each one of her knuckles. "Alex." The x hissed through his teeth. "Alexandra." He sing songed nipping softly at her neck.

And Alex, who was not innocent, who had lain with several men, _who'd had a husband,_ hadn't realized it could be like this.

His words so buoyant.

His touch so fleecy.

Her body so babied.

"I don't want anything but you." He cupped her face and he held her gaze beyond the limits of convention, beyond anything normal. He didn't realize in that moment that he had found her most sensitive spot. Her ego. It was a brittle husk from years of empty swagger, absent of the replenishing drops of honesty. "You are beautiful, you're smart, you're strong, you're good, so good." His words drenched her, they slaked her, and threatened to overflow through her eyes.

Alex felt her face heat uncomfortably.

_**Do not cry.**_ Her inner warrior rebel screeched.

What the hell was he doing to her? He was such a giving earnest lover.

He swept a hand under her back, lifting her effortlessly and she clung to his neck and broad shoulder. She pressed mouth and nose to the hollow at the base of his neck. _**Bobby.**_ His musky, sappy, sticky masculine odeur calmed and comforted her. She clung, she knew she clung, like a babe. She couldn't help it, skin to skin with him was a culmination. It was everything. Their highs and lows. It was their successes and failures. It was the world, the beginning, and the end, and the middle, a circle unbroken.

"You okay?" He murmured and she nodded against him. If she spoke her weaknesses would gush out of her mouth and all over their rumpled brown nest, and set her limbs to trembling and he would _know, _because she realized there in the nook of him, that this silly malady was love. Alexandra Eames was profoundly, irrevocably, incontrovertibly in love with Robert Goren.

He unclasped her bra and slid it off and drew a perfect dusky pink nubbin into his mouth. "Perfect." he murmured pulling in her flesh as she arched into him, "You're perfect."

She fought those tears again.

She fought them with words this time.

"Just sex." She volleyed trying to convince herself more than him, but the richness of her voice was conspicuously absent, the words came out a hollow whoosh.

"Whatever you say." He murmured, rubbing his lips slowly back and forth across hers.

And that was when he felt it, a tenderness that he had never felt before. Her timid fingers slowly crept into his hair. Her thumb traced the folds of his ear. Her soft pads moved over the lines of his forehead. Her lips tripped over the arch of his brow. He was a sexual platter waiting for her to partake and yet she lingered here, just here, at the seat of his soul, where his mind, his expression, his very essence lay. She lingered over this face. She _honoured_ his cheek with the pillow of her palm. He leaned into her touch closing his eyes and she didn't pull away she _cradled_ him and something stirred in his chest.

"Just sex." She tried again.

"I think it might be too late for that."

* * *

_**Season 2 finis**_


	22. Chapter 22

**SEASON 3**

Alex had planted a seed three weeks ago and it had germinated quickly. And in short order it was a sapling growing steadily, reaching toward the light. People were simple and gossip was wildfire and 1PP was an arid forest ripe for exploitation. She did it with a few well timed comments to Deakins:

"My sister has that problem, they've been trying and trying, no luck."

She talked on her cell phone within earshot of Lynn, the biggest busybody in HR:

"I know honey, I know how badly you wanted this baby. I'm _so sorry_. No... No... I _want_ to do this for you. _It's fine,_ it's fine really... I'll probably never have kids of my own anyway.

She paced outside the bathroom stalls after watching that idiot Denise (the Chief of D's assistant Denise, _Bobby's Denise) _go in:

"I want to do this Liz, you're my sister... I know this is serious... I'm offering to carry your baby not loan you a ten spot... _I need to help you_. Let me. Please."

Not coincidentally these yarns she was spinning were the same age as the embryo, splitting and multiplying inside her abdomen. _She could feel every single new cell of Bobby's child_. Pregnant. Her body was heaving and retching on the regular (though only in the morning just like a good little textbook case). Each bout of rancid ralphing was accompanied by pure wonder, **_h**ow** in the fuck could this have happened?_** They'd been safe. And pure horror, because she was obviously single, and she was a workaholic, tongues were sure to wag. Perhaps the most perplexing question of all was, why hadn't she made an appointment? Why wasn't this problem gone? Why was she busy manufacturing an alibi instead of killing the witness?

Why indeed.

But Alex kept on busily planting her seeds.

And her fair lover? Bobby was in the dark because Bobby would never believe her surrogacy ruse. He knew about her and Liz. He knew that they barely tolerated each other on a good day. He'd witnessed the full raw, colourful sushi platter of their dysfunctional sibling relationship. Alex routinely said things like: "if it weren't for genetics..." or "Liz rhymes with witch." or "No way, not today." When her sister's number flashed on her caller ID. Throw in Bobby's penchant for body reading, and eye movement analysis, and Alex was sure he had a better take on her family politics then she did. She didn't have long before he turned his eagle eyes on her rounding abdomen, and ill fitting clothes. She had to tell him. But it was so hard to ruin their idyll.

If only she weren't having a such good time.

If only she weren't happier then she could ever remember.

If only she weren't so deeply in love.

* * *

"Put me down!"

"Make me."

"_Goren._" Her voice held a thousand warnings. He loved to carry her almost as much as she loved to protest. The simple act was pure synergy. It bonded them, it reset their roles to primal masculine and primal feminine after a long androgynous workday. She pinched the taut flesh above his buttocks.

"Gonna take more then that woman."

"Where are we going?"

"The kitchen." Not exactly what she'd imagined would be first station on the train to coitus.

"Sandwich? Feeling a little peckish?" She nipped his earlobe.

"A lot peckish." He planted her bare bottom on the cool laminate countertop and before she could grasp his intent, he'd pushed apart her naked thighs and fixed his northern lips to her southern ones. Her knees tried to slap shut on the girth of his head and shoulders. Her head hit the cabinet doors with a hollow thud.

"Oh God Bobby." She moaned the pale flesh of her legs quivering with this surprise attack. His tongue. _Lord his tongue._ She flailed for a hand hold, caught as she was in the void between the uppers and the lowers, in the land of paper towel holders and toasters and knife blocks, while charging toward orgasm. He spread her wider with his thumbs and laved and sucked and tweaked. Then he slung her jerking thigh over his shoulder.

"I'm… I'm…." She gasped because there were no words for this avalanche of carnal sensation.

It didn't take long.

It never did.

They'd been at this for a month now and there _had_ been showers, there _had_ been cuddling and they _had_ shared long lingering gazes, the kind that made cats jealous. The rules were out and hedonism was in. And now, true to his word, he was peckish. With her juices still glistening around his mouth she watched with lazy eyes as he pulled out a loaf of bread, some mayonnaise and some turkey cold cuts. And soon he was sinking his teeth deeply into a knocked up snack, with his hip parked against the bullnose and naked as a jaybird. And Alex watched every enormous bite because she enjoyed his appetites.

"Take me to bed." She commanded at last, kind of slumped to one side. Her voice soft and languid. He stalked toward her.

"Hang on to me."

His orders didn't raise her hackles anymore. Rather, she wrapped arms and legs around him smooshing her damp, sated bits to his dry randy ones. As they bumped along she ruffled his hair like she was checking for ticks.

"Getting a bit long."

"Is it?"

"Uh huh. I can cut it for you."

"Whoa, wait. Are we ready to take that step?" He stopped dead behind her couch, with a palm on each of the warm doughy globes of her bottom. She smiled into his neck she knew what was coming. "I mean, I have a guy. And he uses the number 4 guard on the sides and scissor cuts the top and he texturizes..."

She was laughing now.

"And the pomade, his pomade makes me smell like I just roped a steer."

"Does it?" She snuffled.

"Yep." He said without a hint of humour "_A steer._"

"Anything else?" She buried a giggle in his neck.

"He has this jar of lollipops by the cash register…"

"Well you'll have to rustle up your own pomade and I _might _be persuaded to buy you a lollipop, but I do happen to have a number 4 and an array of scissors, texturizers included."

"No you don't." He squeezed her in disbelief.

"Yes I do." She squeaked. "I cut my dad's and my brother's once a month. Have kit, will travel. I'm pretty good."

"Well, I'm starting to take you more seriously now." His voice was perfectly even like the tails of a factory bow. "The question is do you have any references that aren't related to you?"

She loved him like this. Bobby was so light and adorable. Was she allowed to call him adorable? It was in stark contrast to Goren, the shit disturber that razed the rulebook and started revolutions without compunction. And Alex wasn't Eames, a woman who'd reamed him out just 8 hours for liberal use of innuendo on the fragile wife of Vinny Fatone.

Their latest case. What could a mob wife expect, of course her husband had a mistress, but Goren had intimated that his mistress was in fact a master. That Fatone was gay wasn't exactly the whopper, this was 2004 not 1804. The big one was that his lover was Gary Wyndham Strauss a sitting appellate court judge. And Goren had done all this revealing quite strategically in a restaurant within earshot of a lunch klatch of several print reporters. Moreover he'd blindsided _her, his partner_. Eames had stood there beside him, stoic, her eyeballs bone dry, because she didn't blink when she was trying to quickly conceptualize one of his plans, and Goren never hesitated when he was jerry-rigging someone's demise.

Of course the result had been a fucking mess. With allegations of corruption in the judiciary, and questions about wrongful releases. And the Chief of D's had been on the phone, and various legal advocacy associations had been on the phone, and the press had been on the phone, and Deakins had fielded all of those calls while delivering his top detectives the meanest case of stink eye from a 14 yards away. And good detective Goren was completely remorseless.

"It was true. Now we have him right where we want him."

"There's a right way and a kamikaze way." Alex had lectured in the superior tone she reserved for such Excedrin moments. He shrugged. And over the course of 24 hours the judge had stepped down, their wiretap had yielded a confession and they'd closed the case.

**_Damn him._**

And now here she was wrapped around him like a baby orangutan picking nits and pressing besotted lips to his cheek. And there was _this thing_ she did, this act of indescribable joy. She smooshed her face into his. Not some bashful buss. This act was one human being taking their entire expression and plowing it into the soft facial tissue of another human being. Alex had done it before to her nieces and nephews, with their round ripe cheeks, but they were children and they craved affection without any shame or doubt. Bobby was a grown man and he let her lift his flesh with her nose and lips. It was fully weird. It was totally wonderful. It caused tickle in her tummy, a bloom (a fist sized red rose) in her heart and a sweet oxy buzz her brain.

Then he was walking again and then she was under him in her bed.

"We're going to catch one tonight." He informed her taking a truly tantric pause, because she felt his geological mass slapping the inside of her thighs, knocking and jockeying for entry. He was more than just aroused.

"Are you psychic?"

"Nope."

"Then?"

"Because I want to stay here and hold you tonight and that's a cue for the universe to piss all over us."

When he said things like that she couldn't harness her cloying attentions. She took his handsome mug in both hands. "You're sweet you know that."

"You're good for me." And wasn't that the highest praise, that _she_ improved _him_. The rush made her reckless.

"I lo…" But not that reckless. No I love you's. Not yet.

"You what?" He went from mellow to 'case face' in an instant. He was hot on the trail of her secret.

"Nothing." She raised her hips trying to snag him in her net, in her hot box of forget.

"No. What were you going to say? You loooo…" He pushed. They both knew what words he was fighting for. But it wasn't about the knowing it was about the hearing. He rolled drawing her atop him.

"The power seat." She murmured, running her hands over his chest. Pinching small salt and pepper hairs between her fingers.

"Will you be more honest if you're in control?" Because he was always working the angles.

"I don't lie to you." Her voice was wispy.

"No. You prefer omission."

She sat up straighter, more lucid, she dug her knees into his ribs. She was being profiled and he was right. 'Don't ask don't tell' was their unhealthy motto too, but things were evolving.

"So do you."

"Ask me then." His gaze was straight, unerring. "Anything you want. I'll answer."

She looked down on him. It was like being delivered the twinkling vastness of the universe and being told to choose one mystery. She was momentarily dizzied by the potential. Should she ask if he loved her? Or about the ones he'd had before her? Or about his family? Or what was up with him and pastrami (he ate it at least 3 times a week)? She bit her lip none of those would do. She decided to approach round the dark side of the moon.

"Did you use? In Narco, did you use?" His brows went up a fraction.

"I never went under."

Alex knew a few things, mostly what was on record: 27 arrests and 27 convictions. She knew he didn't have any tracks marring his forearms. She knew didn't seem like the type to dip into the 'product' but she also knew that there wasn't a type when you were trying to survive. Joe and Vice had taught her that.

"That's not what I asked."

"Once." He admitted after a pause, "Twice." He amended.

"What substance?" She was the dom sitting there on top of him, and he submitted against the advice of his stomach and his deflating penis.

"Coke."

She tapped the side of his nose silently asking, and he nodded.

"I was younger. It's a cesspool down there, a lot if the guys were walking the line, quantity went missing, there was hazing, partying. It's not an excuse. I know."

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "It's your mind."

"What?"

"The reason you tried it. You needed to know." This she knew sure as she was straddling him. She imagined him inside Narcotics, making frenemies with dope. Talking about it, seizing it, testifying against it, strategizing to defeat it. A man like him (a man like Bobby) how could he not taste it?

She slid off him.

He took it as judgement.

"I'm not some junkie." He shifted, displacing the mattress to form a slope that rolled her in snug. "I tried it but I can't do that stuff." He took a deep breath, "It brings on the mental illness. If I use it will blur the lines between fact and fiction permanently. I've always known that, all my life. I could lose my mind if I'm not careful with drugs. Besides…"

"Besides?" She echoed. **_T__here was more?_** The flesh slipped between her teeth and pulled her lips into a frown.

"My brother's an addict. I've seen it, it's not pretty."

Her elbows seized. Her arms retracted like chicken wings, pinned under her chin. She was seeing it now. His universe was even lonelier than she'd imagined. His space junk assaulted her. She looked for whimsical signposts of her own healthy childhood: orion's belt, the dippers, the figures of the zodiac. But it was black. There hadn't been any of that for Bobby, not with Frances lost, Walter fucking around and Frank high. His past was just black.

"Don't look at me like that." He sighed.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm a holocaust survivor."

Her laugh was nothing but air, and she then realized that he was right, she was all balled up and haunted. She unwound then rewound her arms, this time with him inside her bubble of warmth and goodwill. "Nope you're perfect."

"All my shit doesn't scare you off?"

"You think I'm a lightweight Goren?" She pushed him back and reclaimed her throne, his abdomen. "While you were playing with your powder I was shaking my ass in 6 inch stilettos. Trolling alleys with whores, fighting off dealers who wanted a free piece. Look at this." She twisted her thigh a showed him a thin white line. "April 1999 motel off Chrystie. A john tried to slit me open." She left out that it'd been half her fault, that she'd been drenched from a freak rain storm and mourning her dead husband and shockingly careless. She left out that she shouldn't have been there at all.

He ran a finger over her war wound. "Coulda hit your femoral."

"Knicked it. I almost checked out."

They remembered Eloise Kittridge and her inch long incision, clean and precise. They remembered how easily she was made dead. And Bobby saw it starkly in his minds eye, Alex's face instead of Eloise's, her body sprawled and bloody with vacant, terror-filled eyes. His kiss was an assault because if he bruised their mouths he diverted his mind. And her kiss was a benediction because more then anything she wished him peace. And with it, things started to rise and rewetten. And their breath became hoarse and fast.

"Was that after Joe?" He asked suddenly.

Hearing her husband's name was like ice water. She couldn't explain Joe to Bobby while he was between her thighs. And she wasn't without tactical diversions. She backed up abruptly and took him inside her. They both gasped.

"Not fair." He heaved.

"All's fair." And she shot upright, moving like a cobra in a dance that pleased them. Understandably they didn't hear the soft tinkle of his cell phone lodged in the inner pocket of his wool overcoat, on her coat rack, two rooms away. But they couldn't miss hers. It shimmied and bleated from the bedside table.

"Ignore it." He barked because _**Christ**_ she was good at this.

"Can't." She puffed, "Deakins." They tussled a little her grasping, him thwarting. He refused to furnish her freedom or stop his distracting movements. Robert Goren would fight the man with any weapon even _her_ crotch.

"H-hello."

"I can't reach Goren." Their captain barked without preamble, in his clipped stressed way. And Alex briefly conjured an image of him still at 1PP, anchored to his desk trying to damage control the Fatone case. "You got one. Where the hell is Goren?" _**Inside me** _didn't seem appropriate. The very object of the captain's ire surged within her. She looked down at Bobby with a mix of arousal and anger. "Stop" she mouthed emphatically.

"Eames?!" Deakins barked.

"Yes I'm here."

"Male caucasian, Penn Station, 7th ave entrance, local PD on site but it's ours."

"Okay.. I...I'll find Goren. We'll be there."

"And tell your partner that his phone is not optional!"

The parade of errors continued when she dropped the phone. It bounced once and hit the floor. "_Fuck_. Sorry, sorry." She called to Deakins? Into the ether? And the sexual bronco she was riding got wilder still.

"Almost." He grated.

"Fuck Bobby," She whispered, leaning toward the phone "At least let me make sure he's gone."

"That's right _fuck Bobby,_ screw Deakins." He grimaced with preorgasmic strain, then pulled her rigid conflicted body down to his chest so he could rub against her length as he came.

In the aftermath they repelled, camping out on opposite sides of the bed, lying in matching puddles of sweat and agitation. Each _so finished_ with the fleshy bonds that had just held them captive. Alex wasn't angry exactly but she felt that old unease pushing to the surface. Wordlessly they stood and attended to the realities of dirty bodies with heavy minds. Then as they dressed she thought about her secret. She looked at Bobby perched on her bed pulling on his ribbed black trouser socks. So this was to be her reckoning. Standing here with this rabble rouser's baby nestled inside her. She hadn't missed a pill and she hadn't taken anything contra indicated. They were just completely inexplicably pregnant. It shocked her again.

He jammed his feet into plain black oxfords. She shoved her arms into a tailored grey blazer.

And today in a poetic convergence, years of feminist philosophy collided with the realities of life. Suddenly in lamp light of her bedroom it was so obvious that _he wasn't ready._ And the contradictions assaulted her,**_ y__ou're not getting any younger _**and yet they had time to wait and do this right. **_You can't do this job with a baby _**and she couldn't do this job and not have this baby. How would she look him in the eye if she had an abortion? She would splinter into a trillion shards if she didn't find a confidant soon and yet she couldn't tell a soul.

"You okay?" He asked. She was gripping the makeup table bowed under the weight of something.

"No. I'm not. Don't pull that crap with Deakins." She fired. "It's self-destructive."

"He didn't hear anything."

"You hope!" She sighed "Do you want us to be separated? Do you want us to have to account for our sexual behaviour in front of a… a _tribunal_ of NYPD brass? What are we doing here Bobby?"

He wanted to step forward and tell her exactly what they were doing. He loved her. He loved her enough to break step when he passed one of those halogen lit jeweller's display windows. He loved her enough to learn with greedy eyes (during his lunch hour lurk in Columbus Park) just how lovestruck men tucked their women tenderly into their armpits. He loved her enough to have an entire drawer (and six hangers and the space to the left of the sink) designated hers. He loved her enough to consider what a complete consolidation of Bobby and Alex might mean. He didn't say it, he showed it. At least he tried to.

"We're together." He moved to her and took her hand and straightened out her spine. "It doesn't matter what they think. Well it matters, but it shouldn't stop us." He kissed her palm and she let her fingers curve to brush his lashes, those thick black feather dusters. "We have to stay true to us."

She nodded. She might just as easily cried. How could someone initiated by fire be so naive? There was something self-defeating about him. Something isolated and anarchist. He couldn't do this, this relationship, _this baby,_ without torpedoing both their careers. She'd once told Deakins that she had ovaries but she was nobody's mother. For Robert Goren she was willing to reevaluate that stance. He'd never had a mother. He'd never had that quiet unconditional care, he'd never had that raging beast of an advocate, or been secretly safe harboured from the vulgarities of life. It was an incestuous mandate she was accepting, to be both his lover and his mother - but perhaps all committed women were, even if loath to admit it.

She looked at him again superimposed on her floral wallpaper. Sucking all the space out of her modest boudoir with his thick limbs. His look was imploring and so gentle. And she snatched him up and pressed sloppy wet kisses all over his face until he started to laugh at the absurdity of her ardence.

"I'm not in the doghouse?"

"No." She finally got to _those_ lips and tasted _that_ tongue "And even when you are, you aren't." She would protect them, all of them. She drew back eyes twinkling.

"Heigh ho?"

"Heigh ho." He smiled.


	23. Chapter 23

**UNDAUNTED METTLE**

"_Bring forth men-children only,_

_For thy undaunted mettle should compose_

_Nothing but males. Will it not be received,_

_When we have marked with blood those sleepy two_

_Of his own chamber and used their very daggers,_

_That they have done 't?"_

_Who dares receive it other,_

_As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar_

_Upon his death?_

_** Macbeth, Shakespeare **_

"Didn't think I'd be seeing you." Her sister's face was a mockery of her own, small features, thin lips, head of a similar size if not more oblong. Liz's hair was deeper in colour, more ashy like coffee layered with a swirl of unblended powdered creamer. She wasn't grey, it was mat ashy finish over chestnut brown. Like Alex, Liz was slender but more curvaceous with a heightened awareness of such things. She was a couple of inches taller than her detective sibling, but that did not make her tall by anyone's estimation. Liz had lived the DINK (double income, no kids) lifestyle for almost a decade with her husband Bill and then one day quite out of the blue along came Annabelle. The couple wore postponed procreation well. It had allowed them a comfortable lifestyle in Huguenot, a neighbourhood on Staten Island. "You did hang up on me the last time we spoke on the phone."

"You were being a bitch." Alex said. There it was. No fancy feet, no bobbing, no weaving.

Her sister's face twisted, "Whatever."

"Well mom is gone so I guess we can be friends again."

Liz snuffed at that comment because it mostly summed up the issues she had with her sister. "I guess they don't offer tact training at the NYPD."

"No they don't, but they taught me how to use a big gun. Wanna see?" Alex jabbed.

"Great," Liz looked down at her watch it's large round face encrusted with cubic zirconia. "It took you less then 5 minutes to threaten my life."

"Just like old times." Alex flipped her brows up. This rivalry in it's various shades and degrees had been going on since Alex was four years old, and her parents had showed up in their modest foyer, with a screaming swaddled package and announced she was to 'be nice to her.'

"So."

"So?"

"So."

"So?" This could go on forever. Just the way they'd done it as tweens.

"I'm pregnant."

"Holy shit!" Liz's eyes were grey disks. All pretense dropped away and smashed to the floor.

"And it's yours." Alex added because she couldn't resist.

And for her part Liz almost expectorated coffee all over both of them. She coughed and swallowed and then guffawed. "Sorry I don't like you that way."

"Ha." Alex scratched her hairline self consciously. And bit the inside of her lip just a little. She was going to keep her coat on for this confrontation. She might need it for a quick getaway or for the windstorm that might erupt from her sister's mouth. "Okay. So here it is. I'm a single cop and this wasn't the immaculate conception. I needed a back story. I volunteered you."

"You told people that..."

"You're barren."

"Gee thanks."

"And that I'm your surrogate."

"And they believed that? You?" Liz rocked back on her chair, her lips a mangled pshaw.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You! You only look out for number one and frankly you're more man than woman these days." Liz cast a judgmental eye over her sister, an evil eye she'd refined as a former sophomore mean girl at Lawrence High. That boxy navy suit, the shortish hair and Alex's clipped speech. It was in such high contrast to Liz's own fitted wrap dress that promoted her busting bosom. A dress that plastered her assets in an eye catching psychedelic cityscape with skyscrapers and pink taxicabs. In addition, Alex's scrubbed bright face seemed washed out compared to Liz's fashion magazine tutored one - with contrasting shadow in the crease, and blush on the bone. Alex had to admit it wasn't overdone, her sister knew how to pull together a look.

Alex crossed her arms. "Oh good. I knew that bitch was still in there somewhere."

"Sorry." Liz offered annoyed with herself, because sometimes she did forget she wasn't 16 anymore. Too often she dismissed her sister's feelings, channeling a time when life was more mutable, less serious. She liked to think it was a byproduct of being the baby. She felt contrite. "Why the games? Who's the papa? Not that ADA?"

Had she told Liz about Carver? She must have been drunk. No. She remembered now. Drunk with grief maybe. It had been the night of her mother's funeral and the world had seemed so unrelentingly bleak. Their father had toddled up to his cold empty bed - so bent and stubbly and so, so grey. And house had been a clutter of platters covered with, warm rolled meat, bitten chunks of fruit and stale finger sandwiches. And every flat surface had glinted with plastic glasses rimmed with lipstick and saliva. In that environment her siblings had offered her great comfort. Alex and Liz and Jack had traded war stories and sappy sentiment. And their tongues had gotten looser and looser as the clock ticked forth. And oddly their conversation hadn't been a series of odes to mommy. Rather it had been the dirty little secret edition. They'd had each pulled out the little zingers, the shockers sure to distract from their misery. And so it turned out that Jack had slept with Alex's best friend in high school, Linda. "Senior year behind the Aud." He'd laughed. "I got a rash from all the lilac back there." And Liz had kissed Mac "Oh God! Not Mac!" They'd crowed, her father's partner of 10 years, a married man. But not just kissed, they also engaged in some heavy petting in the back of the cruiser. The cruiser! And Alex? Well she was having an interracial fling with an officer of the court (once in the janitor's closet of the courtroom). These dirty tales had spurted out in spectacular fashion, a mocktail of candor and devastation and bleary eyes.

"No. It's not him." Alex came back to the present.

"Who then?"

Alex sucked in a bit and then flung it out on a hot breath. "Bobby."

"Bobby Goren?" Liz said.

Alex's nod was short and sharp.

"Way to fuck with a partnership."

"Thanks. I know. This is the worst thing that could have happened." Alex swiped at that caramel hank of hair that was bent on blinding her.

"So… You aren't showing…" Her sister tickled the topic. Even Liz wasn't going to charge madly or cruelly into this one. She leaned in soberly. "You have options..."

It all came down to this, the crux of this impromptu family reunion. "I... I can't..." Alex admitted.

"Well, Miss. Pro Choice, I never thought I'd see the day. Actually, scratch that, I did think I'd see the day, and I imagined the day would look a lot like this." The words rang with a self righteous fervour that made Alex want to vomit all over the checked red and white table cloth. It made her want to run, so she did, she sprung to her feet all momentum and hot glossy eyes.

"Don't be such an ass." Her voice caught as she looked down at Liz.

"It's true. It's not so black and white when you aren't homeless and it's someone you love, is it?"

"I don't love him." Alex lied "And also this was a mistake."

How could she have been so foolish. Liz as a compassionate ear? Alex had known her sister's limitations when she'd hopped onto the ferry 35 minutes ago. She'd known Liz was hard and yet she'd come anyway. Because Alex was reaching crisis point. With every spare second she added another crumpled sheet to mountain of pro/con lists, she was bumping into things (people even) in the street, she was talking to herself alone in her livingroom. It was too much. Too much for one person.

As she passed her sister with a laser focus on the front door and an ache in her heart, Alex felt Liz snag the hem of her coat and it stopped her cold.

"No. It wasn't a mistake." The younger's eyes softened a fraction. "Sit down and talk to me."

And really, what could Alex do? It was either throw back into that lonely world, or risk something honest here. Somehow she knew that if she left she'd end up getting hit by a bus either by distraction or design, so she sighed, turned and sat.

"You've decided to keep it, that much is plain." Liz's firm voice cut through the constant low grade buzz of her sister's hyperactive frontal lobe.

"Yes. And no." Alex said sadly, "I can't kill it and I can't keep it."

"What does Bobby say? Doesn't he care?"

"Would if he knew."

"_Oh Alex_." Liz felt weary just thinking of the rings of deception that her sister was balancing on, and suddenly the fine lines around this once indifferent woman's eyes became caverns of concern. "You've got to be straight with him. Maybe he'll marry you or something."

"Get out of the 50's June. I don't want a husband to rescue me. I can't be mother, not with Major Case. I slogged for _10 years_ to get to that place." Alex fingered the handle of a mug full of tepid tea. "If I marry Bobby I can't be his partner."

"You'd rather be his partner then his wife?" Liz's face scrunched like she'd swallowed a lump of phlegm.

Alex had thought long about that. About what Bobby really meant to her. And she'd concluded one night sitting up in bed, arms squeezing her occupied middle, that the answer was everything. _Everything_. She loved him like nothing before. And that wasn't some long, secretly held, white knight dream. That epiphany wasn't a little girl (grown big) with a deep unhealthy yen for prince charming and happily ever afters.

What she loved most of all was his comprehensiveness. Bobby was like sand on the beach, the way granules coated, and moulded, staged uncomfortable incursions into orifices. Every single compartment of her life had grains of him. And without fear of illness or obsession, Alexandra Eames could think about Robert Goren when she woke, and she could think about him when she drifted to sleep, and she could dream about him, because without fail those were eureka dreams, the kind that clarified (if not solved) cases.

They weren't just lovers, they were co-workers, and they weren't just co-workers, they were probabilists, and they weren't just probabilists, they were psychologists. And they weren't just all those. They were also pilgrims, locked together alone (as days fell to months) in a series of puzzles that only they could unravel. She and Bobby were a labyrinth, their passageways and intricacies untold. And best of all it wasn't smothering. Surrendering to the intensity of this partnership was the greatest comfort Alex had ever felt. She had once watched a documentary on PBS about a pair of conjoined twins. Two sisters living life connected at the head. As a metaphor it had had an uncomfortable resonance. Nothing, _no one_, would ever know her as well as Bobby.

"Yes." Alex answered that old hanging question. "I'd rather be his partner." A wife was just a wife. She'd been a wife once. It was no longer alluring in it's mystery. Without sparing a second to consider the infinite reasons why, Alex was quite severe on the idea. A wife was a dinner companion, a wife was a platitude receptacle, a wife was a restless bed warmer. But a partner, well, that term transcended sociological norms. A partner was profound.

And based on the curious twist of her sister's brow, it was obvious that as a layman Liz didn't know what to do with that. In Liz's circles of 'plus one' dinner parties and all-inclusive couple getaways and 'shop talk' at the mommy n' me, the pinnacle of relationship success was marriage.

"So..."

"So?"

"So."

"So?" They were back to this.

"Do you have any idea what you're going to do?" Liz finally burst in exasperation.

And Alex stared down her sister with, a chalice full of confidence and a mental ward's worth of crazy. "I'm going to be your surrogate."

* * *

The heels of his palms pressed into his temples as though he were aiming to collapse the whole boney bloody thing in on itself. He moved in a random staggering pattern all over her living room rug, narrowly missing a table's corner here, a shelf's edge there. His elbows, waving and jousting with the air, could be registered as lethal weapons.

"How in the hell did this happen?" Bobby gave her a look. A look that men had embedded somewhere in their DNA like double jointedness or a folded tongue. A look of unvarnished betrayal. "I trusted you."

"Yeah I trusted me too." Alex sat small (and as meek as she'd ever been) legs tucked beneath her in her plain camel armchair, clutching a crimson pillow against her middle like a gaping wound.

"You're so calm." He accused.

"The benefit of being the one knocked up. I've had time."

His eyes narrowed on her.

"Save the suspicion you're as culpable as I am. I told you I didn't miss a pill, I counted about ten thousand times. _I set a goddamn alarm_. I did everything right."

"Shit Eames. You should have been on the patch or an IUD."

"Shit Bobby you should have covered your dick."

He stopped and looked at her then, his little foul mouthed lover. Moreover _his love. _God she was small there, tucked into a single chair, with room to spare. Now that he knew what to look for, he didn't know how he'd missed it. She looked different. Drawn and peaked in some places, a little rounder and riper in others. And those eyes, they alone told her tale. Telescoping inward, a million miles of amber sadness. And to think he'd been lost in those eyes, and all the while his own had been willfully blind.

"I can't have a baby Bobby." She said like an automaton.

His belly jumped as if kicked from the inside. He thought of Dr. Leo Cavella. He thought of the zeal of that entire case. Alex wouldn't be cowed by this problem, she would wield a sickle without reservation.

_**Why did she even tell me.**_

It would have hurt less not to know at all. It was a selfish thought, but he wanted to scream it at her. He wanted to grab her and shake her and yell. "I didn't need to know!" It was his right! As one of the walking wombless. To plant seeds without real conscience. He shut his eyes on the pain. On the unbearable weight of ignorance lost, and on thoughts of what might have been. Bobby wasn't a babe. He'd be 43 this year. Part of him wondered if he would ever be mature enough to be a father. Part of him wondered if Alex was about to dice and vacuum his last chance right out of her abdomen. Worse still, was the shame. Now that the rubber met the road, maybe he wasn't a man of any great moral conviction. Maybe he would solve a problem by any means necessary, just like the criminals he met everyday. His hands shook uncontrollably. And Alex couldn't take it anymore.

"Just leave." She threw out suddenly, loosing her pride on him, because this hard enough without _his face_. "Leave!"

"I'm not going anywhere." He barked and he kept _moving_. To her sensitive eyes he _writhed _around her apartment_. _She just want stillness, oblivion.

"Really!" She shouted again, "Leave! One baby is enough." She was even more stung because she was still waiting for his pledge of allegiance, to her, to _the situation_, to their future, she kept waiting and waiting...

"What do you want to do?" He asked at last. Alex felt fury rise in her. What a macho question. The kind that shifted the weight of life and death and everything else onto women. Her lips tightened. _**Deserter**_. He almost wasn't deserving of her plan. For one hot fleeting flash she hated him.

"I already _know_ what _I'm_ doing."

"Care to share." It was muffled under his palm.

"Adoption."

"No!" The primal yell was out before she'd cleared the last syllable, straight from his soul. To know some stranger was rearing his child. To know that his son was one of unknown billions here on earth. To know that he could walk by him on the street perfectly clueless.

"You don't get a say." Her voice flicked like the tail of a whip.

"Yes I do. After 24 weeks, with a paternity test. Yes I do!"

And she put down her pillow and got in his face, in his chest really, but whatever.

"You want that? No more partnership, no more us, and no baby unless you get a ruling." _**Do you want to be my enemy?**_

"You wouldn't." He said looking at her like a stranger.

"I would." She had practiced being a rock, a stony craig in the mirror. She had practiced going too far, so when she came back to 'just crazy' it would seem normal. "I have a lawyer, do you?" He started.

"Who Carver?" He was just as cruel."Is it even mine?"

And she hit him, adding a red cheek and a raw palm to the mix. And tears gushed out of her eyes because she couldn't hold it together after that.

"Sorry. Sorry." _He_ apologized to _her_ because his slight ran deeper than a slapped cheek. It questioned her loyalty, her virtue, her heart. He'd seen her heart, it was pure.

"I… I know..." She wobbled out. Her emotions all over her cheeks and dripping onto her grey angora sweater. "I know who I want to give him to." _**Him**_. Secretly she felt they'd made a boy.

"What? How?" His eyes widened.

"The Wizard of Oz, Mansfield Park, Pollyanna" She'd googled this just for him. He wasn't impressed.

"What? Riddles? Do you think this is funny?"

"What do they have in common." She demanded again.

"Just tell me." He couldn't think. _He couldn't think! _He looked up to heaven he clasped his hands behind his head and until the swirls on the ceiling gave him vertigo.

She growled in frustration, "Peter Parker, Luke Skywalker, Harry Potter!" He liked a puzzle. Even in abject misery she knew how to deliver news. He liked to wrap his mind around something abstract. When it was personal, when it bored into his centre, he lost all usefulness. He spiralling out and she was bringing him back, just like always. But secretly this word play this was a much for her as him, because Alex couldn't get her plan past her lips.

"Aunts." He said at last. "All of the protagonists were raised by their aunts." Then his gaze became a hot beam. "Liz?!" He got it. "Liz!" He shouted again, "You don't even like her."

"It's cosmetic. When we take away the superficialities, she is me."

Bobby rolled his eyes. That wasn't what she'd thought a month ago. Desperation was making her compromise. "So what? She just takes it. Him?" _**And we know he's there just out of reach never knowing or loving us. **_It was the most heartbreaking thing he'd ever contemplated.

"Or he can know. We can visit. We can..."

"Stop dreaming!" He yelled. "This is insane. He won't ever be happy or settled or normal knowing we live down the street and won't keep him."

She gushed hot salty water again because he was right. She wanted her baby and adoption too. Her leg shook oddly to the left and then gave way. She cried out in surprise, in agony, and he caught her against him before she went down.

"I love you." She mewled, a most incongruent moment of insight. "I love you and I can't des... destro... destroy this." She gasped, grasping her middle. "I don't… I don't know what to do."

"We should get married." He held her. His voice was a chime in the darkness. "I love you too. We should get married and raise him together."

"The job…"

"Fuck the job." He sliced, dragging her limp body to the safe harbour of the couch, before she became a crumpled latex facsimile of Alex all over the floor. And then they were horizontal and then she blanketed him. Lying atop, with his thumbtack shirt buttons pockmarking her cheek, a trapped arm against his abdomen, her hip bone digging into the softness of his sac, and her legs - wasted and weak - scissored tightly between his. It was comfort without desire, it was the rigour mortis of grief. "Did you hear me?" He repeated, "I said fuck the job."

She'd heard him, but barely, through sedimentary layers of thought, through muted ears, through a critical fisheye view of her living room at 25 inches off the floor. The walls were filthy, she'd be up all night scrubbing those walls.

"Eames?" He rocked her body.

"The job is everything." She said slowly, sadly.

"Don't be crazy we can have a life. A real life."

"No."

"You think I'm mad? That I'll go mad. That I'm not mentally fit to…"

"No!" She slapped a hand over his mouth "No!" To stem the flow of his insecurities.

"You think he'll be defective…." Bobby tried again wrenching her hand away, his face etched with anguish.

"No. It's not that. Never that."

She sobbed, soaking him translucent with her snot and saline. "I think we only have the job." All of her illusions about life and happy endings had died with Joe. And she wasn't going to let the greatest mind she'd ever met (_Bobby's mind_) be demoted because of them. _Squandered_ on grunt work like desk duty or bench warrants. Robert Goren belonged at Major Case. He needed her to work, and she needed him to breathe.

"We don't have to do this." He tried again "I can take care of you, both of you. Some cops make it work. We can make it work." He insisted. But it fell on the deafest of ears. She was set. His opinion was but one unfortunate ingredient in a brimming bubbling cauldron.

It was brewing up a prophecy.

She fossilized their destiny.

* * *

"Well I told him." Alex announced.

"What'd he say?" Goren fell into lock step with his partner making this a very conspicuous conversation, just as they'd agreed. And he feigned casual interest, just as they'd agreed.

"Gave me a big hug. He said it was a great thing I was doing for my sister and he said when the time comes he'll hook you up with a temporary partner."

"Oh no, I didn't even think of that. Well what'd you say?" That much was ad lib. He really hadn't. He hadn't sacrificed even a fraction of a second to thinking about how their partnership would look over the next 8 months, or to the fact that Eames would be taken from him, or to the fact that she wouldn't be herself (_his_) for a good long while. Or ever again...

"I pity the fool." She smiled.

* * *

Behind that closed office door Jimmy Deakins sat with tented fingers. He was a discerning man and he smelled lies wafting out from under Detective Alexandra Eames' strategically untucked shirt. There was more to her story to be certain.

He didn't even want to know the depth and breadth of the lies. Because his detectives were working, no _slaying _every case on their docket. And he was the decorated general, racking up accolades, fingering the colourful baubles that adorned the metaphorical medal rack on his breast. Everywhere he went he held his head up and his chin skyward. Pride. Jimmy didn't think he'd ever seen two police officers as effortlessly in sync as Goren and Eames. So what if they were a little more than just peers. They hid it well. They were a class act. Rigidly professional. Deakins could finally see shades of the military man Goren had once been - stone faced, measured reactions, he was even tempering that big busy body.

So, Deakin's thought, _**I'd better make this good**_, circumspect wouldn't cut it today. No. He'd send his approval across the squad in an 82 decibel baritone. And his surety of voice would make everyone a believer. The rank and file would fall in. He'd make Major Case tow his agenda of self-interest and Eames' one of secrecy.

"How about our gal, huh! Surrogate mom." He boomed for the cheap seats. Then he levelled a loaded look at the co-conspirators.

And they all got back to business of crime fighting.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: I forgot to include my note, so I'll add it now post-publish. This story is not going to be a slow steady burning romance. It can't be. Canon dictates that over the years Goren and Eames got torn to shreds by the travails of life. They are going to have to go through the full spectrum of human emotion. Sorry, there's no way to avoid it. If you're up for that tortured journey then please keep reading. **

**I've decided that for now, Eames will be much more reticent and conflicted, and Goren much more open and willing. Mostly because these are early days. Eames is much closer to her husband's death and Goren is years off all the crap we know is coming. Romance will be a heavy component and I do like a happy ending, but this won't be a fairytale, where once 'I love yous' are issued, there's a magical forcefield of goodwill around the couple. **

**As for adherence to canon I'm not on a mission to re-write the cases. I'm writing about after the scene cuts and after the fade to black. But I'm still staying completely within the bounds of what was presented on the show. If you see some place that I'm in factual error about canon please tell me and be specific, after all there were almost 200 episodes, that's a lot of content to remember.**

* * *

**BUT NOT FORGOTTEN**

Alex was a beast terrorizing the streets of New York. Something primordial was calling the shots. Something burgeoning in her belly and spewing out of her mouth. "Get outta the way!" She yelled and leaned hard on the horn.

"Eames!" Bobby's fingers went white around the grab handle.

"What?! This city is full of idiots." She lowered the window and got into it with a pedestrian crossing against the light. She pulled her badge and gave him the what-for. How she picked that one sad sap, from amongst the throngs of others doing the same, Bobby would never know. Then, a blazing yellow mercenary on four wheels nipped into a gap in front of them. And Alex went into orbit, cursing a blue streak and pumping the accelerator. They rocked back and forth dramatically on her spasming leather bootie, dancing on the bumper of that aggressive taxi.

"Get on the freeway." Bobby exploded. _"Get on the freeway."_ Because frankly her mood would kill them all.

Wordlessly she acquiesced. She veered to the left and up the weathered concrete ramp. Then and only then, did the wonky energy seem to even out. That odd disturbance in the force sizzled and sparked behind them in the rear view mirror.

On the motorway Alex was a liberated falcon, hood off and feet unbound. She sank her foot to the floor and burned rubber, throwing thick black skid marks at her problems. Bobby watched her settle into her seat and find a temporary ease. And her ease begot his. He turned to the window, extracted his fingernails from his palm, and exhaled letting the tension drain away. He prudently kept a comment about hormones to himself. Because her behaviour was about so much more than that. He was riding shotgun beside a classic case of displaced anger.

Alex had them on lockdown. There was no talk of futures. She refused to speculate, refused to dream, refused to plan, refused to acknowledge their growing quandary. And as her abdomen expanded so did her ire. The frustration, impotence and anger found a way out, scuttling through the cracks in her facade. As the baby bump pushed up over her solar plexus he imagined it eclipsing the energy of that 3rd chakra. Sapping her will, her fire, her motivation on this topic. Sapping all the things that made her Alex. He'd repeatedly tried to engage her, _more then tried,_ begged,_ implored_ her to talk to him, but all talk of babies triggered a system glitch that made her shut down completely. For his part Bobby suddenly understood how it felt to witness a murder (only this one in slow motion). He crawled into psyche of the witness. He understood ceding to fear. He understood trusting no one. He understood hefting out of bed and going to work, then coming home and closing your little aluminum blinds against the big bad world - for the illusion of control and safety. His intestines were a Gordian knot.

"So." He offered after a couple of good sane miles. "No body."

"No body." Alex sighed. He was going off what little information had come over the wire. They were on their way to a brand new crime scene. The curious case of Frieda Merced. It was a missing person for now, but something about their presence seemed inextricably bound to foul play. "They don't ask for much do they. Unravel the mystery, get the bad guy and here you go - _no evidence._"

"We've done it before." He reminded her.

"We have." Her voice was sultry. Dr. Peter Kelmer. Not only had they _not_ had a body, they'd gotten the conviction. Their eyes met, their pupils hot orange burner rings, then they mentally undressed and then they had an intellectual quickie right there on the FDR. Their packed portfolio of solves drew them together in psychic ways.

Alex squeezed the leather steering wheel, the squeak of epidermis on hide. Then her brows zipped up mischievously. "Step right up folks and place your bets."

"Not this again." He deadpanned. "How unethical."

"My money's on the spouse."

"How original." He murmured, looking down at the brief: Merced had gone missing from her Midtown apartment. It was a Major Case because she was both a philanthropist and a lady who lunched.

"Okay genius who do you think it is?"

"Preconceptions are dangerous." He offered from experience, still absorbed in something inside his open portfolio.

"Oh come on Mr. P.C." She mocked. "Don't be such a stick in the mud." She could play with him like this now because she knew him, _so well._ And in plumbing those depths she come to understand that nothing would compromise the chain of evidence. To work a case with Bobby was to deify the clue. Each one painstakingly uncovered and then pressed into position. Then slowly, together, they created a mosaic of logically arrived perfection. The final product, _the solve,_ was like a Van Gogh. For Bobby to enter a crime scene with preconceptions was _virtually_ impossible. He relished the process too much.

This game she was playing 'Guess Whodunit' was her warm up. Because unlike Bobby, Alex liked foibles and eccentricity and wide shots off the rim. For Alex the world was fodder, she was a one woman show, and it was always open mic night. She got her crime fighting muscles good and loose with a little gross speculation. Bobby humoured her as he always did.

"Okay okay." He reached over and thumbed her chin affectionately. "I say it's the snotty mother-in-law." Then he tilted his head in contemplation. "No. I want to change that to the sister-in-law."

"I like a man who likes a long shot." The words were loaded. She let her eyes drift affectionately over him in his dark suit.

"Only like?" His voice deepened.

No, love. She absolutely _loved_ everything about that moment - the crime, camaraderie, innuendo, affection, _him._ Deep inside her resolve strengthened. This was what they needed to be. This was what they were all about. _This_ was why.

* * *

Inside the classically designed pink parlour of the Merced's 8th Avenue apartment, Alex couldn't quite hide her bias. Detective Javier Rodriguez briefed them. And again something irked her. Maybe it was his sympathetic retelling. Maybe it was her belly full of rage.

"Everybody we talked to said they were happily married." Rodriguez offered.

"Everybody doesn't include _Ms. Merced._" Alex snarked.

And just then, the focus of the entire room shifted to accommodate the entry of Truman Merced. Alex didn't miss a beat. She shook his hand while noting that he looked appropriately weary and wrinkled. There was a redness in his eyes, an authentic sag in his cheeks and deep tortured cavities creasing his forehead. The information he offered was meager at best.

Alex turned and cringed into the tasteful gilded frame of a piece of Victorian art. That was embarrassing. Call it baby brain. Smack talking their victim in his own living room. And he was, a victim, it wouldn't do to forget that. He deserved their sympathy until the evidence said otherwise. Alex felt a shimmer of shame. Secretly she wondered if the physical toll of this belly might be changing her, even dulling her a bit. Maybe it was time to talk to Deakins about parking her butt in a chair.

**_Dammit. Desk._**

20 minutes later downstairs in the building's glossy wood panelled foyer, Bobby fell in beside her, "Equinox Fitness Club. 5 days a week including yesterday."

"Okay great let's go." She said grimly chewing on thoughts of the bullpen. Months and months and months of tube lighting, paper cuts and polyester ties draped over beer belly's. No action. How was she going to sit still for that long?

"Want me to drive." He asked suddenly.

"No _I don't want you_ to drive." She turned on him sharply. "Something wrong with my driving?"

He held up a palm and a portfolio in surrender. "No. No. No implication." Because he was a little afraid of her. And his grand gesture of surrender tweaked her to just how bitchy she was being today.

The world was a piece of grit in her open wound.

* * *

The gym was on Broadway and 51st. A vast, subterranean, corner unit inside a Manhattan mid-rise. Outside the main entrance was grey stone terrace, a city solution, a space hollowed out of the earth, to allow natural light to stream in through the plate glass frontage. Bobby waylaid Alex in that architectural pit. Above them the frenetic, oblivious mass of commuters made them invisible. Beside them people streamed in and out of the building strapped with pilates mats and sporting garish spandex. It was a perfect place to pause. He stopped dead in front of a stone ledge and gestured for her to sit. He did that a lot more now. Got her to take a breather. And Alex was at once smitten and annoyed by his deference to her condition.

She remained on her aching tootsies and he rolled his eyes.

"How is it?" He asked, looking at her _hard_. A look he'd perfected over the last 4 months, she called it 'the Leaning Tower of Bobby' and much like the stone and mortar one he didn't seem very structurally sound. She planted a small hand on his double wide chest holding him at bay.

"It?"

"The whole experience." He asked a bit anxiously, "Are you tired? Stressed?"

"Bloated and stupid." She said succinctly. She felt like a walking mistake. Making procedural error after procedural error. And this after she had gotten her field time extended because of quote a 'low probability of mortal injury.' After she'd restricted her own time at the firing range (too loud). And after she'd grudgingly accepted that she was about to miss her annual firearms re-qualification. She wasn't leaving the wellbeing of this child to fate. She was being as conscientious a 'surrogate' as she could be. She was eating well, she'd all but cut out coffee and she was doing a modified workout regime. And yet, with all that she still felt something - empty, angry, scattered.

"_No you're not! _You're pregnant and pounding the pavement. That's awesome_._" He rebutted her critique so emphatically that her eyes glossed and prickled. And he saw it. She was mortified. This was okay for nighttime Alex, but completely unacceptable for daytime Eames. She turned away. All these new emotions threatened to overwhelm her and he steered her back to his warm brown gaze. "Hey. This is big. _Huge_. And we're both fucking it up."

She nodded.

"I don't know what to do Eames." He confessed vaguely. He really didn't know what to do, on any level. Heller should have written about this.

"You don't have to do anything. You're perfect. Let's go in." Being told he was perfect while standing here a weak, conflicted, mess, was cold comfort indeed. She gave his lapel a tug and there was nothing to do but follow her on that invisible lead.

"And, Bobby?"

"Yeah."

"I think it's time for me to take desk." She said it with her back, because this new soft Alex was liable to start bawling.

* * *

And so they tumbled around informed only by the evidence, first to Animal Control, then a not-for-profit, then a purveyor of stinky cheese, then here the Brooklyn doorstep of a widow and an ex-cop. Isobel Carnicki did have the face of a Madonna, and hair like a raven, and eyes like a kewpie, and lips like a bow, and she turned the full effect of those assets on them. She was disarmingly feminine. Beseeching, even. Alex couldn't quite imagine what she was trying so hard to sell. Some guilt perhaps? Or maybe it was her way, some women parlayed their femininity to their advantage. Or maybe Bobby was right, pre-case predictions were dangerous.

Alex looked around the Carnicki's Brooklyn walk up. Tasteful neutrals, family photos, an acoustic guitar on a stand in the corner. All the trappings of this woman's new life. A life hard won after the murder of her husband.

_**So this was what it looks like the second time around, **__**Joe. **_Alex spoke to him silently. She often did, just as naturally as she had once spoken to him aloud. And with it a thick wad of something rose up in her throat, and she swallowed it down like she did _every single day._

_**Oh God Joe.**_

Alex supposed even two decades from today she'd get this very same pang. Her life with Joe was greyscale now. A charcoal sketch in light and dark, not as bold and vivid as it had once been, but it would always be there. In contrast there was Bobby, so alive, so big and bumbling and _real._ He was behind her right now, a nice antidote to her intensity, compulsively manipulating a bin full of walking sticks. Raising and lowering, twirling and juggling the things like a drum major. "EC." He said, "These are his." Referring Isobel's husband Earl Carnicki.

"He started collecting those after he got injured on his job. He was a cop. Now he's a partner in a security company."

"You didn't want him to know about Dan's tax problems." Bobby guessed.

"I didn't want to worry him. He's been so good to me. After Dan died, if it weren't for Earl I don't know how I would have gone on."

And in that instant, a comical cartoon lightbulb went BING inside Goren's skull. Hearing this widow wax-nostalgic about her dead husband, watching Eames lean in empathetically, it was a eye opening vignette. He felt like a raging idiot. **_I don't know how I would have gone on. _**The words echoed. And he finally got it. Alexandra Eames wasn't some Singular Single looking for long walks on the beach. She wasn't some simplistic 'Must Love Dogs' classified's archetype. She wasn't a love lorn suburban princess. This _woman_ was gritty, hard, her husband had been _murdered_, and she had scraped her ass off the floor, and dried her tears, and doubled down on being a detective. She had watched his casket being lowered, she had accepted the folded flag, she had startled at the three-volley salute, and she had listened to the last radio call **_"Detective Joseph Dutton ended his watch on August 14th, 1998. He is gone, but not forgotten."_**

She had probably entertained thoughts of dying right along with him.

Maybe she was still married to him in her mind.

And he, Bobby, came swanning in with his motile sperm and his happily ever afters - like he was the latest, shiny, new shit. Asking her to marry him and have his kid and damn the job. But he'd forgotten, everything was old under the sun for Alex. She had lived this before. He was asking her to step back in time, asking her to recreate the very circumstances that had left her wounded and alone. _**Alex is smart and logical she knows I'm not Joe, she knows the probability that history will repeat itself is infinitesimal.**_ His conscious talked a good game, but it was clear that her was subconscious was bent on survival.

After the interview, they jogged down the front steps of the Carnicki residence."You okay?" She asked. He was suspiciously silent and solid.

"Yeah fine." He frowned thinking. _**She is damaged.**_ That kind of deep psychological debt lingered. He should know. The kind of pain she had experienced could never be soothed by a few promises and platitudes. Alex would take a flamethrower to their hopes and dreams before she gave in to potential heartbreak again.

"They're phallic you know." She teased oblivious to his mood.

"Huh."

"Those canes. You had your hands all over his... "

He cracked a smile.

Then he stood back and imagined Joe taking her arm and helping her into the SUV.

* * *

Back at 1PP Deakins trumped her. Parked atop his desk in the open doorway of his office, he crooked single finger in her direction and Alex knew before going over, before seeing his sympathetic mouth and down turned eyes, exactly what he would say.

"Light duty." He issued without preamble and she'd nodded and sighed. "You can start right now." He joked. "The Carnickis coming in. Park yourself over in that corner and take a breather."

Anyone other than Jimmy Deakins would have gotten a fist between the eyes for that one. But he, well, he felt patriarchal and compassionate and she desperately needed her Daddy today. This kindly Captain would do in absentia. No sooner had she sat then the room start to fill, with Carver and Goren and then Carnicki the Mr., and Carnicki the Mrs. And rarely had there been a more genuinely fraught takedown.

_"She's not afraid of me. She loves me. We're going to raise a kid together." Earl Carnicki broke._

_"Yeah right, the adoption that was delayed by the SARS virus. The adoption agency said that the alert was lifted in May." Bobby shoved a sheet, proof, at the man's anguished face. "They told Isobel and she told them that because of a family emergency the adoption would have to be postponed indefinitely. You see, the family emergency Earl, that's you going to prison." He swiveled on Isobel, "You got him, you got him but good."_

_Didn't Isobel know it. "I wouldn't raise a dog with you." Here it was. The rage._

_"But Dan was a killer. Dan was a cold blooded killer." His voice cracked._

_"He was getting out of it. He never lied to me. But you? You're nothing but lies." She turned to the DA, __"So what happens to me now?" _

_"Your behaviour hasn't been ethical but as far as I can tell you haven't broken any laws. I do expect you to testify at your husbands trial." Carver looked bemused._

_"I only ever had one husband." Isobel Carnicki looked disdainfully at the sad sack she'd wed and walked away._

And it was all a dagger in Bobby, given his earlier conclusions. Given what he didn't want to know. As though the universe had conspired to give voice to his darkest fears.

* * *

Bobby prowled around his dark apartment. The soles of his feet coming down soundlessly on plush carpet, his bare body effortlessly skirting the obstacles. All of his worldly possessions amounted to a bunch of indistinct black blocks. The clock on the stove was offensively dazzling in its proclamation - 3:33am - and he couldn't settle his mind.

The night was both a friend and a foe to this man. On one hand darkness was a cocoon, like a thick, inky, numbing hug from the great beyond. This was what it felt like to be dead. Beyond the ken of men and their zippy, technicolour world. And then on the other hand his mother had ruined the night for him forever. Bobby knew intimately that ghosts and goblins and nut jobs got rowdy after midnight.

He remembered. He would never forget. The PTSD had fused unnaturally to him. It had shaped (mutated) the man he was, like a vestigial tail or a third nipple. Frances roaming the halls like Marley's ghost. Her chains and proclamations keeping the whole house awake. Standing in his kitchen with his hand clapped over the neon green nuisance light of the clock, and soaked in the obsidian calm. He could almost hear her...

_**"Damned to hell." She bellowed then, "Divine Lord hear me." And then, "Dirty government pigs." And his 8 year old eyes snapped open under the scratchy polyester of a 'Looney Toons' blanket. And because this wasn't the first time (far from it) he clutched it over his head and wish his mother dead. But she hadn't died and she hadn't killed them, though they could hear her rattling around in the kitchen.**_

_**Under that blanket his stillness was supernatural for a child so small. But his brain raged - all instinct and fear and survival. It ran wild with obscene scenarios. Was she coming? Was she getting a knife? What if she set the house on fire? Because this nocturnal creature wasn't his mother, her voice was an octave lower, an unholy growl and she was on some Jihadi mission to cleanse the house, and hold infideles to account.**_

_**Then Frank, who had been useless in most other aspects, used his three extra years to rally them. Springing out of bed cursing like a boney sailor, in tighty whities, with gangly legs, and a flesh draped breast plate.**_

_**"Fuck." He yelled in true schoolyard gangster style. "Fuckin' bitch." Then like a script he tripped over something and stubbed his toe. "Stupid fucking whore." Bobby clenched, in those moments Frank was as scary as Frances, and Bobby was a doe eyed victim of circumstance.**_

_**"Help me." Frank barked and together they put the full force of their pre-pubescent bodies behind the solid pine tallboy. They'd heaved and grunted until it was in front of the door. Tonight a lamp, but sometimes books or another time a troop of dusty knick knacks, crashed to the ground, because they were working with REM-interrupted minds and sleep-weak muscles (and most of all haste) because if their mother sensed what they were up to, she would burst in and beat them. Frances never hesitated to raise her hand or that thin belt, a reticulated leather snake that she flicked as punishment for their transgressions.**_

_**Then after the dresser, came the footboard of the bed nearest the door (Bobby's bed). Then they jumped back under the covers and hunkered down to wait. Without fail she would come to them. Pounding and profane and Bobby felt each and every slam of her hands reverberate up through the bedframe and through his small skeleton. His terror destroyed sleep for hours afterward. Then at some point the pummeling would stop and Bobby's silver dollar sized eyes would droop, his erect hairs would smooth, his breathing would lose it's choppiness and the toxins ebbed out of his muscles. And because his body had it's own categorical imperative, a rigid sleep was somehow obtained there, on his tense spine and phantom tail. Then one cruel snap of the fingers later the room was flooded with light and it was time for school.**_

Tonight it wasn't Frances that kept him wide-eyed it was hurricane Alex. That other female force of nature that gave him night terrors. In a poetic turn he had chosen a woman as powerful and ludicrous as his mother. He would never understand Alex. What could she possibly be thinking? If she stayed on this confounding path she would spare their child but murder them.

Liz.

He'd only met her once and she'd been curt. Not rude per say, not unseemly exactly, just curt, all the way from the pointy rhythmically tapping toe of her pump to her pursed lips, to her abrupt "Thanks." When he'd placed an envelope in her hand.

Now she was to raise his son? How could he stop this absurd baby barter. He'd been hanging himself before Alex subserviently, giving her time. She had said he wasn't going to be a father and he was trying to accept that it was her body. But this Gordian knot (yes it was still there inside him) demanded more, it demanded bold action. He was getting sick about the injustice of it, that Alex might soothe herself by 'selling' what they'd made. Then overlaid on this mess was the uncomfortable knowledge that he'd found his twin flame (that human being that popular vernacular called a soulmate). Alex had slotted into his brain and enveloped his meat and she kept all his mental machinery running like multi-viscous motor oil. He couldn't storm off with any real heat, he couldn't dispense with her, because he _needed_ her to work and to love.

**_"The last two weeks before Dan got killed we were away, in lake Champlain, just the two of us."_**

**_"And before that in August?" Bobby dragged his voice monotone. Alex watched him intently. He was off._**

**_"He had a construction job in Nassau he was coming home late I remember I had a bad flu."_**

**_"He brought things home for you when you were sick, soup and magazines and?" Had Joe done that for Alex? Bobby wondered because Isobel was painting a fully realised picture of married life._**

**_"Yeah he was thoughtful that way." She smiled wistfully "He'd bring me crossword puzzles and medications."_**

Bobby shifted uncomfortably on a wooden dining chair. And planted his elbows on the table. Joe. Joseph Dutton. Was that how he'd been? Thoughtful? Isobel Carnicki's words had detonated something inside him. Bobby had so many questions. What had gone on in that marriage anyway? Had it been the institution to rival all others? Had they wanted kids? Had they tried and failed? Or worse tried and succeeded and then failed? Had Joe been the love of Alex's life? Had they had whirlwind a fairytale? Had they set each other on fire? He wished an aneurysm would pop in his brain and take him away from all this futile, painful speculation. But it didn't. On a bolt (the second of it's kind today) his bareback straightened against that cold unyielding wood of the chair. He realized then that he wanted Alex more than Major Case. He loved her more than his calling.

"Bobby?" Her voice floated to him lyrical and gentle on a dream. "Bobby?"

But it wasn't a dream Alex was here, down the hall in his bed. He wasn't alone. He looked up from his tortured place anchored at the table. And there she was framed in the doorway, a sweet pixie with bare feet and shapely exposed legs, backlit by the window at the end of the hall. Her curved tummy presenting like a down filled pillow, it was encased by his white cotton v-neck t-shirt. She was swimming in that shirt. It dipped low beyond the valley of her cleavage and the hem skimmed her knees. Still she managed to look like a golden apparition of softness in his hard world.

"You need your sleep." He said immediately with care that came naturally.

"I can't sleep without you." She said and her vulnerability got him.

He extended a hand "Come here." She padded over on a yawn and curled up in his lap. On this issue of this fetus floating between them they were mortal enemies. And yet neither had considered calling this affair quits. He planted a long soft kiss on her forehead and her head lolled back with the weight and intensity of it.

"I love you." She murmured and it sounded like she was halfway to the land of nod already. This was the very first time she'd told him what he already knew.

"Do you?" He asked.

"More than anything." She cupped his dark face.

"Good because I love you too."

"Hold me tighter." She demanded with a dosey lilt and he obliged squeezing her. She nestled into his heart."Never let me go."

"Don't worry. I never will."

He knew what he had to do.

He had to resign.


	25. Chapter 25

**Sorry for the delay. I've been travelling for the last couple of weeks. It was like an olympic sport of flights and organizing and packing and unpacking. So busy. I thought I'd never get this chapter up.**

* * *

**PRAVDA**

Bobby sat in front of a vanilla mini cake, roped with a ruffle of royal blue icing. The sides were encrusted with sprinkles, miniscule ball bearings in a rainbow of primary and secondary colours. Hundreds of them, thousands even. It was hard for a savant not to go cross-eyed staring into that sea of confectioners baubles, spheres of edible joy. And there were 43 candles on that cake. Forty-three pastel sticks corkscrewed with white thread. He watched each candle doing it's best to hold it's ground on the spongy diminutive surface, thinking that each one represented a full 365 days in his life. Inevitably some sloped and others tilted precariously, and a few barely clung to the cake at all, so at least these candles were honest.

He looked up at Alex. "Wow."

"Wow?" She scoffed. "It's a cake."

"But you made it."

"Sure, me and Betty Crocker." She said, embarrassed by her own sentimentality.

But Bobby was unphased by his own. He turned and snatched up her hands and kissed each one. "Thank you." He said "It's been a lifetime since I had a real cake."

She smiled down on him. "You deserve good things."

Under her gaze he felt special, though he was pretty ambivalent about what he deserved. Alex had made a real effort today, cooking and baking and buying a bunch of balloons. It all put him in mind of his best birthday ever. The one where he'd turned 6. Mind you, time may have immortalized that day in ways that made it shinier than it deserved. And he knew his memories were infantile, a meringue - fluffy and glossy and sweet, but August 20, 1967 was still a gold standard in the mind of Robert Goren...

**That day had dawned perfectly and by 8am the sky was a broad cotton candy blue. The sun grinned down on Canarsie. They'd all thrown on shorts and tank tops - the kind pulled out of a colourful heap on the floor - because who cared what you wore, it was summer vacation. Then just before lunch they hopped into the Chevy Impala (him and Frank and mom and dad) and the engine turned over and purred on the first flip of the key. And as they reversed down the driveway, his mother had let one fine hand reach across the top of the baby blue bench seat, to ruffle his father's hair. And her eyes had danced impishly.**

**Then they swung that boat around onto Herb Lawn Avenue and collected his friend Charlie. His best buddy in the neighbourhood. Charlie Blay lived in the house with the neon green lawn, and the metal garden art - a smiling sunflower that danced on the breeze. Charlie tore out of the bungalow like it was on fire the second they rolled into view. And Mrs. Blay waved goodbye from the front window. Then his mother leaned languidly toward them and said, "Hang on to Charlie." And the boys had locked arms and thighs, sweetly ignorant of things like momentum and velocity. And the quintet headed down to Mighty Moe's. **

**The kids vanished through glass double doors, into a sea of bobbing crew cuts and pale arms, never to be seen again (until mealtime). Every boy and girl was there to do the same thing: stand slack jawed in front of enormous pinball machines and token games, and worship them like false idols. Bobby could still remember the ping of the machines and the ascending electronic chime of a win and the robotic siren call of the lady inside the speakers. He remembered a diminishing roll of quarters, and hours spent trying to fish tweety bird out of a glass cube with a mechanical claw. He remembered that the adults had sat on the patio sunning themselves and slowly sipping something frothy and amber from tall glasses (the way adults were wont to do). Bobby still remembered tears of laughter, and he still remembered the paddywacks, and he still remembered happy birthday sung in 12 part harmony by a choir of waitresses, hostesses, bus boys (and even a manager). He remembered a mountain of presents (though it was likely only 3). And he remembered a big white cake rolled in a rainbow.**

When Alex lit up his 43 candles they merged into one giant angry tapering flame, unstable and blazing. He zoned in on the cake top bonfire, and decided he'd better muster a breath or call the fire department.

"Blow them out already!" She read his mind. And he pulled back, just like that little boy and gusted his momentum and dioxide and a fine mist of saliva all over that thing. And it worked. The flames were extinguished and thin black tendrils curled and hula'd up into the ether. "I thought we were going to burn the building down." She muttered. "What'd you wish for?"

"I'm never telling." He leaned back and crossed his arms, because just like that 6 year old he'd wished his family - the one he'd chosen, Alex - could stay this way forever.

"Oh okay." She quirked a brow, then very earnestly said, "Happy Birthday Bobby." And planted a heavy smooch right in the clearing between his brows.

Alex had wanted to throw him a real to do. Complete with friends, co-workers and a smattering of family but he had talked her down. It wasn't a milestone after all, just another notch carved into some invisible wooden score board. Besides he didn't much feel like celebrating. They were sitting squarely in the eye of the hurricane. There were babies dancing around their subconscious. The promise strange new professional bedfellows lurking in his future. And there was conflict everywhere. Except for now, in this golden moment of peace and goodwill. His birthday.

"Can I cut you a piece? It's your favourite." She cajoled.

"Uh, okay."

Alex gave him a million dollar grin and picked up the dessert. "You're distracted." She said over her shoulder from the kitchen, as she sunk the cake slicer deep.

"No I'm not."

"You are." She clanked a scalloped-edge plate with a man-sized slice down in front of him.

"How do you know?" He asked after a heaping mouthful, and good broad lick of the fork.

"Because you're quiet and spacey."

"I meant how do you know this is my favourite cake?" To his recollection they'd never eaten cake together and all his recollections came from the eternal barometre of an eidetic mind.

"Halliwell."

"Jesus." He cawed, "Remind me never to cross you. You know everything."

"Not everything. Not yet." She smiled using one of his lines. And he looked at his Alex. Really looked at her, sitting on a dark wood chair with her fuller cheeks and her chunky waving bob. _She knew him_. She was right, she didn't know everything, but one day she would glean the A to Z of him. The Halliwell case came rushing back. The smell came first - paper and citrus air freshener - all of his memories were rooted in the olfactory. Bobby knew then that he _had_ eaten cake, but only once, and only in the office of some forgettable pharmaceuticals peddler in Brooklyn 13 months ago. And he'd only dug into Doug's office birthday cake, to kill time while they plumbed the man for information.

But now he saw it, he saw himself leaning against the low wall of an anonymous cubicle, holding a paper plate, and licking a plastic fork, and confessing candidly to Eames, "This is my favourite, outta the box vanilla, with mass market frosting and rainbow sprinkles.' And she'd stood there and glowered at him (he was fairly sure she'd hated his guts back then). But she had quirked one mysterious brow.

_**So that's the move.** _A peaked eyebrow meant you'd been scanned and added to her database of quirks. He stared, a little in awe of the monument they were building.

"What?" She said at last.

"Nothing. It's just.. I like you."

"I like you too."

And because it seemed the thing to do, after being read like a 2 dollar novel, he reached over and smeared a good dollop of white frosting on her nose. Her screech tickled his pleasure centres.

"That's how you repay me?" She wedged her thumb up against her nostril wiping. "In my day thanks used to be a nice card or a…" He tucked forward at the waist as if to kiss her, but changed course and fixed his lips completely over her nose, sucking gently. The rough of his tongue swept up her bridge, then he laved the sweet filmy tip, then bumped over her cupid's bow.

"That was a first." She said drenched and dreamy, and he nibbled her punch-drunk lips and dragged his chair up against hers.

"What? No one's ever given you a nose job?" He murmured against her mouth.

"No. Never."

"Good." And somehow he managed to make that sound like a strategic gain. She frowned, but quickly forgot as he rolled back her t-shirt and spread both big hands around the curve of her abdomen. He wasn't shy about feeling her up, cupping her bulging conflicted body.

"Cut it out." She murmured but thrust closer.

"I can't help it, you're sexy like this. All swollen with my baby."

"Bobby." She cautioned weakly.

"My baby." He whispered a sweet something.

"Bobby." She crooned in protest.

"My baby." He said again erotically brainwashing her, associating that dirty word with pleasure. "I know what would make this the best birthday ever." His lips slid all over. She released her head, baring her neck to him.

"Presents?"

"Sort of." His hands slid down her back and breached the stretchy waistband of her pants.

Alex strained past his shoulder and grasped a small box before she lost all sense. "Here." She forced it at him.

"Eames." He sounded annoyed.

"Goren." She mock growled.

"After." He tried again nuzzling her, black-eyed with need.

"No, now."

He sighed and took the gift "You've done enou…"

She stopped him cold with a look. "It's small. Really." It wasn't. She'd actually broken the bank on 18 carats of pure white gold with a small inset diamond and an inscription. He tore at the ribbon and lid and cotton and pulled out a tie clip. "Open the card." She demanded tersely because she'd written things down that were so naked that they terrified her. Things about love, and safety, and devotion, and about clipping a piece of her over his heart. She watched his eyes scan her cursive. She watched rigidly for acceptance or rejection. Alex knew, like her, that Bobby was circumspect, and like her he was sullen, and like her he was a river, a churning white water rapid of emotion under a calm presentation. Relief came when he squeezed her to him, and rocked her on his muscular knees and kissed the life right into her.

"Thank you Alex." And they sat like that for a good long while.

"What do you want to do with the rest of your night Mr. 43?" She murmured eventually.

"Cuddle." He spoke into the hollow behind her ear.

"Ha!" She laughed cupping his face. "If only the guys on the squad knew."

"What?"

"That you have more estrogen than me. How about a movie? Jason Bourne or a foreign war flick?" She enticed snatching up a DVD called No Man's Land. "It's in Bosnian, with subtitles."

"You just can't go wrong tonight can you?"

"I want you to be happy." There was a malaise about him. Alex (deep in denial about her complicity) chalked it up to professional anxiety. Any day now he was going to catch one without her. And now they had a name for his new partner G. Lynn Bishop. Deakins had broke protocol to share her stats. Alex had liked the look on her captain's face while he'd done it. Weighty, she'd call it weighty. If she hadn't known better, she'd think Deakins understood _all of it._ He assured her that Detective Bishop was the best possible choice and that she would have Bobby's back.

And so Alex came to know that Lynn Bishop was a 3 year veteran of O.C.C.B. Organized Crime Control Bureau. And that could only mean one thing, she was going to be one cool customer. Alex had met other OC vets, they had ice in their veins and a limited range of human emotion. And of course they did. They were dealing with the mob: the Russians, the Italians, the Chinese you name it. Flinching wasn't an option. And of course Bishop had been tapped for this MCS detail. So she must be made of good stuff. Bobby would run circles around some untried newb.

"You want to talk about her?" Alex tread lightly, sometime later, cleaning up their celebration.

"No." He didn't even ask who, instead he stood grabbed his sweaty half drunk beer and plopped down on her sofa. Eventually she sat in opposition (spatially speaking) lifting her calves onto the ottoman. She flexed her tired toes and rubbed her distended belly. He was brooding.

"C'mon, it'll do you some good."

His stony look begged to differ.

"Take what I've taught you young grasshopper and use it in the real world."

He let his legs a fall even more deeply away from the centre, and he took a swig of his beer.

"You were totally un-partnerable before you met me. Now look at you." She smiled "You can test your new personality on someone impartial. Think of it as an experiment. You like experiments.

"An experiment in being nice to a stranger?" His sneer said it all.

"In being _professional_. In seeing if you can work with someone else."

"I don't wanna work with someone else." And the petulance. The downcast eyes, well it was all she could do not to break into a long drawn out 'awwwww,' like the studio audience of a 90's sitcom.

"It's just until this is over." She tapped her tummy.

Raw rage filled him. "This will never be over! We'll always be parents."

Alex sighed. "Let's not go there."

"No let's." With his belly full and his future uncertain, the prospect of a rumble felt good. "I don't want you to give away my baby. And I don't want a new partner. I want you in life and in work. I want blanket Eames coverage."

"Like an insurance policy?" She smirked.

"Don't laugh!" He was serious as cancer, "Joe screwed you up."

She clenched, he had no idea. "I think the happy part of this birthday is over."

"Who fuckin' gives away their kid to keep their job." He shook his head in wonder. "_Don't do this._ Let us be happy."

"We aren't normal!" She yelled thrusting up out of the chair so quickly that she got vertigo. "I am not the happy housewife. I _need_ the action and so do you. 2.5 kiddies and a picket fence _is not my dream Bobby!_ I already miss it. I'm still technically your partner, _the leave hasn't even started_ and I already dream about getting my gun back."

"Well grow up. You can't have it all." He muttered feeling trapped and edgy.

"If I'm not grown up I don't know who is."

"We'll figure something out."

But Alexandra Eames would never take another IOU to the bank. She didn't believe in promises anymore. "How are we going to _both_ take 3 am calls with a kid? How will we keep our heads in the game? How are we going to explain it to the brass? Other cops get parental allowances, they get leave and modified hours, you think we can have a secret kid? No special dispensations? Just stay partners, and work around the clock, and miraculously not be shitty parents? Keep dreaming."

"We'll hire help."

"Oh oh." Her hand flew up "I vote for a Park Avenue nanny. Do you have an off-shore account I don't know about? A full time live-in nanny? You're a regular fucking Trump."

"You sure that's not Satan's spawn in there?" He gestured with the butt of the bottle, "Because you have been a total lunatic since I knocked you up."

"If this is Satan's spawn what does that make you?"

And this was how it went, over and over. From ecstasy to agony because this was a puzzle they couldn't solve together. There was no perfection in untying this knot, only ropes coated in the slimy sludge of life.

"Well do what you want." He said finally. "This is my last case."

"What do you mean?"

"This will ruin us. You think we can just soldier on? There'll be too much baggage. You do this and I'm leaving." His word stank of bravado.

And Alex clung to the lip of the countertop because the pain of that almost stopped her heart. "Those are words of love? That's how committed you are?" Her face was etched, deep ugly caverns of sadness. "Yeah, this is definitely the way I remember it."_** Love was h****eartache, misery, desertion.**_ "Fine resign. I'll get over it."

For dramatic effect she clomped off down the hall. And then the bedroom door almost popped off it's hinges.

* * *

Teeth brushed, pyjamas on, eyes wide. Alex lay there in the dark straining for the slam of the front door. But the condo was quiet, too quiet. And somewhere in her belly, beneath the baby, the stress of wanting played neatly against the fear of having, and wracked her with pain.

And then the door squawked wide. To her dilated pupils he was a sore, man mountain. Then she heard his pants come off and his shirt and she smelled that he'd added a few more beers to that first one. There must be fermented hoppy ocean in that stomach now. And he lay beside her, on his back, in the dark, radiating alcoholic heat.

"I want to talk to Liz." He said at last. "And I want a lawyer, and I want a contract."

* * *

_**Her head is on fire.**_

Not the most generous first impression, but nonetheless it was the one he made. And it was closely followed by, _**she smells like peppermint**_ which was followed by, _**she's stiff as a board**_ and finally (and little wonder really) _**She doesn't like me.**_ Maybe Lynn Bishop's thin lips and depressive glare where a holdover from those insolent teenage years. But something made Bobby quite sure that this woman was fun and flirty with friends. This disaffected grimace was for him and him alone. After all he did have seniority. Without Eames power had been thrust upon him. The mantle weighed heavy around his shoulders.

Goren knew his default position was to assume people didn't like him. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Hence his spectacularly disastrous partner record. But so many people were counting on him not to mess this one up. God, he missed Alex already. 10 minutes into his temporary partnership on the dirty side of Flatbush and he wanted to eat a bullet, or maybe start pulling his hair and banging his skull in a Hollywood facsimile of crazy. Either way he would put an end to this thing.

"You two don't take notes?" Asked the hawkish Detective Giles

"Uh we haven't worked that out yet." _**We prefer to circle and sneer.**_

Bobby stared down at the prone bloody body of Katya Jelenak. This job was ridiculous. The moniker 'partner' wasn't effortlessly transposed from one to another. It had to be _earned_, it had to be_ won_. He and Bishop hadn't made a game plan, they hadn't decided who would be the functional alpha, or even if anyone wanted the role, he hadn't even ridden in a car with her_._ They'd just kind of showed up and began this clumsy waltz, tripping over each others feet. Goren liked to whirl Eames around a crime scene at an even 90 beats per minute. But this woman, Bishop (she sure was as stuffy as church hierarchy) just wouldn't yield. So Bobby danced solo from the spattered floor, to the tea tree coated bed, to the hinky desktop while the _new girl_ with the orange hair just stood and stared.

_**Oh give her a chance. Even if she's got it all wrong.** _So he did, but only so he could school her on human nature.

"My theory is Ms. Jelenak, she heard the assailant, she was sleeping in the bed and he was at the desk. Detective Bishop's theory is that um she woke up to a burglary. What do you think?"

"I like hers."Carl Hines didn't hesitate "And as I already said the poor kid was dead when I came home."

"Can you check your desk to see if there's anything missing? It's for Detective Bishop's burglary theory."

Hines gave the clutter a cursory glance. "Not to knock your theory but it's just the way I left it."

_**Gotcha!**_

If only everyone were as obvious as Carl Hines. Sure-footed through a blood bath, cavalier nicknames, and a willingness to play fast and loose with the truth. A missing thesaurus was hardly an indictable offence, but what it did was speak to this man's reliability. In an instant Bobby had him pegged as an aggressive, malcontent, whose every breath wafted with entitlement. It was racial, Hines had shot his load prematurely on the bugabear of skin colour. "Given she was killed here, given my race I knew I would be your first suspect." But it was more than race. This guy had secrets.

Goren felt the thrill of the coming hunt boiling in his blood.

* * *

There was something about an Eames'less' professional universe that turned Robert Goren into free range masculine energy. Something about being constantly tracked by Bishop's unsympathetic eyes, that made his hand punctuate the air with more force, that made his speech a little more Brooklyn hoodlum, that made his ticks less pronounced.

He was working two cases. Jelenak and Bishop. The latter, he told himself, was because a basic understanding of this 'partner' was paramount - her tells, her stressors, her non-negotiables. But around quitting time, in the gloom of the underground parking lot, he got jumped. Alex pulled him behind a thick concrete pillar and got him by the earlobe.

"Cut it out." She demand, wrenching his soft flesh.

"What? Ow ow…" He curled 76 inches into a short grimacing ball.

"See what you missed not working vice?" She mocked his earlier words.

"What? I can't be proud?"

"So proud you forgot to tell _me_ for 3 years." She twisted that lobe harder.

"_Ow! okay okay._" He surrendered.

"Just be nice." She let her hand drop.

"You're violent." He said rubbing the side of his head.

"I heard about your little stunt with Carver."

"You've been talking to Carver!" The man's name could still send him into orbit.

"No." She said quickly. "Stephanie" Carver's paralegal. "She told me you torpedoed their case on Elkins."

"Come on, it wasn't a case. Bishop thought he was good for it, she ran with it, I just pointed out the inconsistencies."

"You have to get there _together. You know that_. You want to be the first cop that can't even keep a temporary partner?"

"Why?" His brow furrowed "What has she said?"

"Nothing but there's a grapevine. And some Major Knuckleheads have started a pool. The pot is up to $500. How long will this one stick around? Bennito has a calendar in his desk people are buying dates."

He looked pleased. "I'd like in on that."

She slapped his arm. "Be nice. Just ride this out. Do your Sherlock thing and come back to me." He forgot himself and put his hands on her hips. "Uh uh. Not here." She took a quick step back.

And Bobby realized in that concrete tomb, that she was his crack. His addiction. His fingers were itchy, reaching for her constantly. He'd like to fuck her. He'd like to murder her. He'd like to marry her. It scared him a little to have all that emotions coursing through him. He had the shakes. Withdrawal. He wanted so badly to mind meld with her on this case,_ every case_. But when he got her back her tummy would be flat, her holster would fit flush to her new neat hips. His progeny would be gone. So he wanted her and yet he didn't.

He held those thoughts uncomfortably in opposition. Wasn't that the definition of genius after all?

"I'll behave." He said at last and crossed his fingers behind his back.


	26. Chapter 26

**HAPPY FAMILY**

Bobby gripped the steering wheel with both hands, ten to two, and thought grimly about all the things he had taken for granted. Like Eames, and her obsession with driving. That quirk of personality had freed him up, to read, to reflect, _to marinate_ in what had gone before, and to anticipate the schemes on the horizon. He looked longingly at his portfolio, wedged between the gear shift and the seat. It was nose down and headed for the land of crumbs, french fries and shed hair. Bishop was an alabaster statue, her face turned toward the passenger side window. Her pale hands, tucked tightly between black gaberdine thighs, reminded him of an Oreo cookie. He hoped she was lost in thought, but he suspected that between discussions she powered down to conserve batteries.

_**That was mean.**_

He didn't want to be. Bobby had found an uneasy peace with his interim partner. She was single-minded and he could appreciate that. It spoke of her dedication. He couldn't expect an easy banter (that it had taken 2 years to gain with Eames) to come to them in 2 days. _**But it's been 2 months**_ he reminded himself. Deakins also seemed bent on reminding him that he wasn't quite 'hitting the highs' he did with Alex. There was a lot of exasperation in his superior's voice these days.

_"Nail down the basics. Check her alibi." He'd barked like it was the first day of academy._

_Then again 4 days later, Deakins had thrown in with Carver for a little passive aggressive tag team. "Didn't you tell me they were eliminating suspects?" The ADA asked the captain like they were alone in the room._

_"That's what I thought they were doing." Deakins fixed a critical spotlight on his detectives._

That day Bobby had pulled himself up straight and blinked, mildly mortified. He'd been sitting there in his captain's office vocalizing. Mindlessly mad-libbing the way he did privately with his partner (_his real partner_). He'd been displaying the process to a room full of critical bureaucrats. They didn't want the _raw meat_ sizzling and splattering, they wanted the _meal _plated and cooked to perfection. He and Alex presented a clean, unified narrative replete with props: documentation, and big pictures, and 20 point font, to make it _real_ easy for reductive minds and myopic eyes to follow. No, Deakins didn't want to know this stuff. That day Bobby set angry eyes on _her_, because Bishop's private reticence had forced him to publicly destroy the magic, to illuminate all the ropes and pulleys behind the drape.

_**Oh well. It is what it is. She'll be gone soon enough.**_

They were on their way to Carver. Snaking down to the Civic Centre from the Trinity School on the Upper West Side. And he felt like a silly tourist. Or some neo-explorer trying to map the island from north to south. As if he were the first one to step foot on this paved, angular, overdone thing. The truth was tougher to take. He'd been coddled. This was _the real_ job - gas and mileage - geocaching (little clue parcels) all over New York State. The problem was he wanted to put his head down and levitate from suspect to suspect on a Ford built magic carpet.

_**Driving sucks**_.

He detoured off the congested 9a and got right back into the thick of it. His eye took a laser view down the breadth of Broadway, swarming with yellow cabs and sidewalks full of wriggling black jackets, the unspoken uniform of city dwellers. He supposed it could be worse, with Bishop. He supposed they could have a heap of failures, but they didn't, they were solving. Red was weird, but she was good. Really good. And that got him wondering. If Lynn Bishop was uninitiated (in the Major Case sense) why had she had fallen in with him so effortlessly? He gripped the wheel tighter. There two plausible hypotheses for the phenomenon of their snug fit. The first was that he was getting dull, that his process was now so simple any primate could follow along. The second (which he preferred) was that this detective was very sharp.

He frowned giving her a suspicious sidelong glance.

"How's OC?" He asked suddenly.

She let her head roll to him lazily. "Good."

His smile was more a trick of the lips. "How about elaborating?"

"It's like MCS without the latitude." She fixed _that dead stare_ on him. And he fixed his own dead stare back. And she kept talking because even his stare had seniority. "We have to be more aware of undercover movement, backstory, props, continuity and we don't have our own personal ADA to keep us right with the rules." That was a bit below the belt but still congenial.

"Did you work out in the field?" He knew she had. A couple of years ago, she'd gone under. He knew she spoke fluent Russian. What he didn't know was what she'd done afterward. It was all a bit grey in the file, 'Detective First Grade' told no tales.

"I work in analytics."

That got his attention. "I didn't know OCCB had an analytics department."

"It's a growth area." She offered. She withheld that she had been part of the lobby to the brass for a smarter (more tech savvy) way to collar those mob mooks. "It's a two pronged approach us in partnership domestic terrorism. We get access to big data."

"Predictive analytics?"

She nodded "I was extrapolating from single subject."

He distilled what she was telling him. "You were predicting the behaviour of organized crime families by analyzing individual subjects?"

"Uh huh."

_**Wow**_. "That's desk." He said instead.

"It's both. It's what you do inside your head. But we have constants, because we're dealing with hierarchy and group think. This one off murder stuff is harder." She admitted then with a grimace "and more fun."

_**That wasn't a grimace, it was a smile. Quit being such an ass. **_And that thought was right inside his skull, and perfectly in Eames' voice. He fought to think independently. He considered Bishop's words, and awareness crept cold through his limbs. He understood why this particular woman was sitting beside him. The noonday sun created a halo of clarity around his mini-me. Lynn Bishop was yin to his yin. He'd been profiled by the NYPD. It was kind of flattering. It was kind of creepy. He supposed they had made a reasonable deduction. Premise A: Goren and Eames close cases. Premise B: All of the cases were closed using profiling. Conclusion: Goren needs the help of a female profiler to close cases.

But whoever had made the call didn't know that the argument was null because the was conclusion was faulty. Eames _did_ profile and she did it with great skill, but that wasn't the aspect of her that complemented him so. Rather it was her rational levity. Over and over she pulled him back from the stark brink. She gave him back his humanity. _She made the job fun_. He sorely missed hearing about himself (_the world_) from within her pop culture parameters.

_"Stop being a diva, Barbra" _She'd say dismissively, or this case, he could practically hear Eames calling the angelic classically trained Jason Connors a "f_uture member of a boy band._"

He missed having his theories dismissed because he had tunnel vision.

_"Perfect Einstein, now let's go back and factor in all the women." _Alex was his check and his balance _and_ his equal. Without her he was one blind spot away from the fall. He gave his pessimistic head a shake. _**Stop pining**_.

"What about you?" Bishop asked and he jumped. Her monotone felt like a blitz attack in the tight cabin.

"What about me?"

"You worked narcotics and now you're here."

"Yep."

Her voice had a ring of exasperation "You know you're famous, and a little infamous."

"Infamous?" He said vaguely. He didn't want to know what she meant. For Bobby working in a bubble of goodwill with his partner, his lover, his touchstone had shielded him from such tawdry perceptions, all perceptions - good or bad.

"People know your name." Bishop hedged astutely.

"I've been around a while." He said hoping she'd leave it there.

"27 cases 27 solves. And now in MCS 53 cases 51 solves it's impressive." She marveled straight into the window, fogging it up with awkward accolades. She couldn't say that it made him hall of fame material. She couldn't say that on her first day she'd meditated on the subway to keep her hands from shaking. She couldn't say that this was the pinnacle of her career so far.

"Thanks." He mouthed. Records meant nothing. All he could think about was Nicole Wallace. Something stinging and sour rose in his throat. He knew Bishop was delivering a compliment. In a more generous mindset he might have caught how goddamn star struck she was. But she didn't know that _fucking_ Nicole Wallace brought up his food, and stole all his air, and made him want to hit something.

"Do you like it?"

"What?" He barked.

"Major Case." She bit her lip and purged her face and hoped he didn't smell fear, because Robert Goren freaked her out.

"Yeah. I think I could stay here." He said and then slammed them back in their seats with a heavy foot, a symbolic case closed.

* * *

Ronald Carver was very amiable without lingering love triangle tension. Lynn Bishop was like a fresh neutral gust down the courthouse hallway. He seemed more than happy to facilitate another tailor made Goren trick. Bobby wondered about the kinder gentler ADA he was witnessing. Was he posturing for the new girl?

"I ah... I see your point detective but there's equally compelling evidence against Mrs. Connors, the nanny and Dr. Friedman. They all have motive, leaky alibis and they've behaved in ways that indicate a guilty mind.

"Maybe it indicates something else. Maybe we should have a family reunion. Think you can you arrange one?"

Carver heaved "Custody seems to be the issue on the table. I can probably get a hearing scheduled. When did you have in mind?"

"Solomon threatened to split the child. Maybe this time we should let the child decide."

* * *

When Alex opened the door that evening he grabbed her like a grizzly, and then rolled her like a croc, down into the murk with him - into the places his mind had travelled today without her calming influences.

"Bad day?"

"No." He said with his muzzle tucked under the fall of her hair.

She wrapped both arms around his neck "Something's wrong."

"Nope." He slammed the front door with his foot, burrowing deeper.

"Okay then."

Soon he had her up, en pointe like a ballerina, and he dragged her back, only her big toes bumping over tile and carpet. It was quite an elegant bit of choreography considering her impressive belly, considering she hadn't consented.

"Where are we going?"

"To bed." _Just like that._

"Maybe I'm not tired."

"Maybe you will be."

She laughed. "This... this growth doesn't put you off?" She looked down at her cartoonish curves.

"You mean, _my baby_?" He was still doing that. "It makes me feel like a man." He growled for effect. Then, in the bedroom, he folded her in ways that reaffirmed his power. He made her body a scalene triangle - her ass the apex, her legs spread and her face chafed by cotton sheets. And she took it - his day, his appendage, his aggression, his grunts, his extremes. She took it because there were only a few ways to get the job done with a beachball for an abdomen. Then she flopped over heavily, panting, sated.

"Ready to talk now?"

"Ready sleep now." Barely coherent he sprawled out like a boss. Claiming three quarters of their quarters for his own. Alex watched through slits, his muscle, his dimpling, his taper, his humps and all his toasted flesh served atop her quilt. She pulled back from the yawning oblivion of sleep.

"I hope you're getting along with her."

"We're good." He garbled, "I'm her hero."

"I know." She propped up on an elbow.

He turned a big brown eye to take her in. "How?"

"Woman's intuition. Ask her out and you'll see how much she likes you."

"What?!" The lone eye became half a face. On this topic he was completely innocent so her words were like smelling salts. "She doesn't see me like that. She's barely human with me."

"We all mask it in different ways."

"That baby is affecting your brain."

"I'm sure it is, but it's keeping it's hormonal little mitts off my instincts."

"You're jealous."

She fell back. "You're right I am. But she likes you."

That perked him right up. He slid his sinew over to her. "_You're jealous_? Tell me all the ways you're jealous."

"Stop." She laughed.

"Tell me."

She told him something else instead. "It's in the way she runs after you. In the way she defends you. In the way she hangs on every word."

"6 weeks ago you got me in a lobe lock and threatened me. You said she'd leave. This is a plot twist."

"Don't you know a thing about the woman?" Alex sighed in exasperation. "She has something to prove and she's desperate to learn, but she's not a martyr. She will bow out if you embarrass her."

"I know a lot about Lynn Bishop." Her tone got his back up.

"What do you know? Tell me."

"She spent her formative years in the southwest, Texas. She's an only child. She has never been married and she isn't dating. She speaks fluent Russian. She once had a melanoma excised from her forearm. She uses spf 55, and reapplies once a day. She's a natural redhead with a mild case of alopecia around her left side part, it flares up with stress, like now. She favours Prada in footwear and fragrance. She wears a size 7 shoe and a size 2 pant. She wore braces in high school and now she has oral anxiety. She chews Dentyne sugarfree midnight mint after every meal. And her best friend's name is Jennifer."

Alex let her eyes do a full graphic roll in their sockets. "I don't even want to know how you know she's a natural redhead."

"I studied _her roots." _

"So she survived your 50 point inspection. But has she actually confirmed any of this? Maybe over coffee? Maybe in the spirit of camaraderie?" Alex wasn't pushing him away, and yet some sad, desperate part of her felt like she should. They felt doomed.

"Of course she confirmed all of it." During the Bates/Davis spree case Bishop had made some offhanded comment that had nicked his ego, in retaliation he'd unleashed all her details in an angry tourette-ish torrent. It hadn't exactly helped things.

"Okay." Alex frowned, now thinking of them laughing together under the artisan light fixtures of some trendy coffee pub. _**Be careful what you wish for.**_

"Enough about _her_." He grabbed. "More about _you_."

"You know everything about me." She said suddenly tensing up.

"What?"

"It kicks."

"It?" He looked disgusted.

"_He's_ kicking, hard." She amended. Alex was trying and failing to keep her distance from this baby. She secretly cooed to him at night. She wondered if this was how her mother had felt in those last months with the enemy inside and the battle futile. "And I don't want to fight." She added for good measure. She was so fragile. Her due date was bearing down, and she was starting to panic, and she was all alone. Her lover was living in some distant galaxy. Bobby pressed his cheek to her outie. Alex cringed seeing private parts of her anatomy on parade. _**Look at my navel guts, waving at the world.**_ And she hated seeing the faint red fingers radiate from that circle. Her belly was a big angry sun. And he was basking in it.

"Hi baby." He cooed to her taut skin. "It's daddy."

"Bobby. Stop it." She flipped away from his attentions. "Jesus. Stop making this hard."

"I'm not going to make it easy." He snapped because he felt his child in there rolling and tumbling. He felt a bone, maybe from an elbow or a foot or a hand pushing at him through a paper thin sheath of Alex. "When are we meeting with Liz?" He asked.

"Between cases." Alex said. "She'll work with your schedule."

"Well this case will be over tomorrow."

Alex was intimately familiar with that tone. He was going in for the kill. "Already?"

"Uh huh."

"You're really knocking them down with Bishop." She couldn't help but notice that the math was the same, with or without her. She couldn't help but think _**he's the closer and I'm the placeholder. He's the genius and I just... **_

"Is that why you're jealous? You think it's working without you?"

"The stats don't lie."

"No they don't."

And a secret salty tear worked down one cheek and got lost in the folds of the bedding. She felt foggy, fuzzy, upset, diminished. It didn't help that she was so naked, and so imperfect and feeling so unproductive between the hours of 9 and 5. It didn't help that none of her clothing fit, and her heart was being pulled in every conceivable direction, and that Lynn Bishop was tripping all over her boyfriend.

"Of course," He went on, moving behind her. "The stats don't reflect that we're still partners in every way." He ran his hand down, then back up the seam of her sandwiched thighs. "The stats don't reflect that you still listen to me ramble on about strategies." He let his index finger play in a nest of coarse blond hair. "The stats don't reflect that you still pep talk me through the politics, or that you've burrowed into my brain like a tapeworm."

She sucked in a soggy breath. "That's poetry."

"No that's honesty."

* * *

_**Dysfunction is part of the human condition. **_

Bobby walked into the manufactured custody hearing. Adrenaline shot through him. He should have been an actor. He felt at home on the stage. Make no mistake it was theatre. In the vein of all good dinner theatre (minus the prix fixe menu) the players were introduced and their machinations artfully laid bare, all with one goal - to catch a killer. Eight pairs of court mandated eyes blinked up from their respective tables and designer labels. Without being told where to sit each had chosen _very_ telling positions in the room. They'd paired off with the people they were most aligned to. Mrs. Connors to herself - her seatmate a lawyer. The nanny to the children. The doctor to his wife and of course another lawyer.

"I know that if none of you people killed Russell Connors there is only one other explanation for your _suspect _behaviour." Goren reached deep. He felt sick. He knew who he was here to take down. His own PTSD rose up and threatened to swallow him, because _**there but for the grace of God**_. Bobby saw his own 10 year old desolation and fear reflected in the eyes of that young boy. And imagined he was gentling a filly. _**Work your magic Goren, talk softly just the way he'll like it. Use your bag of sad tricks to reel him in, that's it, that's it...**_

"Sam, when you were at the orphanage did you sleep in the cupboard? It made you feel warm and safe. Didn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Is that why you slept in the closet at the hotel and at home because you were scared?"

"Yeah."

"And what about you Jason? Were you afraid your father was going to send you back to the orphanage? Is that why you went to see him before the recital?"

Bobby (the younger) hadn't trod around with a pocket full of the threads and shed of life. His little fingers hadn't tangled and rubbed buttons, and string, and lint, and pins, for comfort. But he had slept inside his share of closets, and he had, at age 7, reverted to sucking his thumb. Never in public, and never in front of Frank (except for one terrible time) but as silent succor when he was alone or in the dark. He empathized deeply with Jason. And yet the child had done the unspeakable. Bobby could remember wishing his own mother dead, but he could just as viscerally recall _loving_ her _desperately,_ being petrified that she would leave them. Of course his young weak mind hadn't been manipulated by a vindictive parent. Paula Connors was dying, and the bitch was taking everyone with her. For the first time since Eames' departure. Bobby was grateful to have back up. Unlikely as that was. Carver and Bishop on the periphery, once foes, were now a strange reliable comfort. Or maybe, he was just grateful to be reminded that his youth was over, that he was a man.

"From a Romanian orphanage to an American divorce, I hope the New York State will prove a better guardian for these children." Carver looked solemn, affected.

"From your lips to God's ear." Goren said.

And he was more than just moved.

For the first time he clearly saw his own righteous path forward.

* * *

_**Dysfunction is part of the human condition. **_

Il Fornello was little Italian restaurant in Soho. Bobby had been here once before. His friend Stephen, Stephen Ziegler, had reserved an intimate private room for his engagement party back in 1988. Back in a year when the word engagement had sounded like _castration_ for a lad like Goren - with his oats still unsown, and his life still unlived. But he'd gone to that celebration anyway, a fresh faced 26 years old, and he'd toasted the happy couple with a glass of ouzo (per the heritage of the bride-to-be). That night he'd wished them a life full of happiness, and wishes _were_ horses because this one had stuck. Stephen was still married, he was 3 kids deep, and he was the head of the linguistics department at Princeton. Bobby had seen him for the first time in 4 years only three weeks ago. Stephen's faculty for the dialects of South America had helped him put away Lance Brody, the serial hate killer. And then on a trip down memory lane Stephen had reminded him that Il Fornello had weathered the economy, and terrorism, and food trends and was still amazingly tucked down a cobbled close south of Houston.

And so Bobby took Alex's hand in a show of solidarity and together they walked into another manufactured custody hearing. Adrenaline shot through him because this time there wouldn't be any acting. This would be raw.

"Liz, Bill." Bill, who Bobby had never met before, was about half a foot shorter with a firm handshake. He wore trendy frameless glasses, on a (not unpleasant) resting face. The room was a naked rectangle. There were no zones of comfort, no barriers, no lawyers, just one rustic plank table - the top of which was garnished with low fresh herbs, tealights and orbs fashioned from grapevines - hugged by ten leather seats.

"This is a beautiful space." Alex observed, obviously trying to be positive. And Bobby thought _she_ looked beautiful. A bounty of belly in a fitted turquoise sheath. Of course she also looked drawn and terribly anxious. And the strain made him feel for her. Strangely he wasn't angry with her. That wasn't totally true, her obstinance about this child did raise his ire. But only her obstinance, not her process. She had arrived at this place of terror legitimately. He _understood _her. Bobby knew that none of this was for her lack of heart. On the contrary Alex was drowning in love, and it's companion, fear.

"We probably could have sat out there." Liz gestured to the full restaurant through the partially frosted glass wall. They forgave her that indelicate observation, because every single body in that room was a live nerve. The normalcy of the laughing imbibing patrons in the main dining room called seductively to them. After all it wasn't everyday that you hashed out the custody of your sister's baby.

"Actually." Bobby announced "I'm expecting more guests." He refused to be cowed by Alex's insane arrangement. Just like in the Connor interrogation he was making the rules.

And Alex, totally blindsided, shot poison darts from her eyes. "This isn't the time to add friends." Her voice and lips were tight. But for Bobby this was a case, not a surrender, and Detective Goren always used surprise to turn the tide. The door swung in ominously to admit Jack and his wife Julia.

"You invited my brother." Alex shook her head. Then the door shifted again. This time it was a woman, familiar to no one, in a pencil skirt carrying a slimline portfolio.

"Did you invite the whole bloody city?" Alex swallowed hard because she was seeing his mind from the outside. She was being forced to assume the perp position, and it was very uncomfortable. _**What is he doing?**_ She felt her eyes gloss with rage with impotence. And she couldn't control it, even here in this room with all these people. She wanted to sign some papers and be done. She wanted this baby out. She wanted her small comfortable world back. She wanted to stop dissolving into watery mess at every upset.

"Looks like this is turning you into a real girl, no fairies needed." Liz whispered to Alex on seeing her tears.

"Shut up." Alex shot back and Bobby saw the truth of them. He made to comfort her but Alex elbowed him away. _**I will never forgive you for making this harder**_ her ridgepole shoulders threatened.

But he couldn't consider her anymore. Detective Goren saw the versions of his life unrolling around him like great thick brown carpets, rays of restriction. Each one was marked with an option: resign, reconcile, run, rationalize or raze. The last had always been his comfort zone. He going to hold onto that soft mewling baby with both novice hands. Tonight was about dividing the child. In proposing this division (wise old Solomon) he hoped it would spur Alex's maternal instinct. And in failure of that lofty goal, at least this round table would bring clarity about all the variables: rights, schedules, costs and contributions. Tonight was about raising his boy correctly, in the bosom of a family without wealth or standing but also without or fear, or vendetta, or malice but hopefully with love. _A normal family._ It was the anti-Connors solution, the anti-Goren one for that matter.

"Bill, Liz, Jack, Julia." He dipped this head to her. "Alex. This is Rita. Rita is a mediator, she specializes in family disputes, child custody, de facto custodianship and conflict resolution."

He could feel Alex boiling.

"We _aren't_ going to surrender our parental rights." He informed them locking eyes with Elizabeth, but afraid to look at his partner. "But we need help." Then he was humble. "Please help us."

Alex leaned in and pulled him down roughly and whispered, "What the hell are you doing?"

He murmured back "It takes a village."


	27. Chapter 27

**F.P.S**

Robert Goren stared into the abyss.

The dark result of his scheming.

He'd been cut loose. Or more aptly, left alone to 'think about what he'd done.' Alexandra Eames was more of a mother than she'd ever admit. He'd called her, he'd knocked on her door and he'd left her long rambling circular voicemails that graphically exposed his own dependency. Gratefully shamelessness was also a side effect of desolation.

"Uh Alex. Call me. Just call me. I know it didn't go the way you expected, but it's not like I didn't tell you. I said I wouldn't go along. I told you I couldn't do this. Look, just call me okay. Alex? Alex are you there? Are you listening to this? This is a baby! Our baby. Not some door prize! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know you're just as invested as I am. I wish I could talk to you." The receiver slipped between his plea weakened fingers. It hit the end table with a clatter. "Damn it. God damn it. Call me, just call me."

The funny thing was he'd won. Sort of. Had his tactical maneuver at Il Fornello been inside an interrogation room at 1PP, he would've gotten a hearty slap on the back from Deakins. But inside the restaurant that night everything was turned on it's head - the mission, and the teams, and his moral imperative. Still, he'd had been masterful at forming alliances. Alex's brother and sister and their spouses had been receptive. He'd watched their bodies sway towards him. He saw it in their eyes, they were bamboozled by his _obvious devotion_ (freed from the erroneous conclusions planted by his devious paramour).

He travelled back...

_"I don't have any family." Bobby said around bolus of fear, it was trapped behind his adam's apple. It would rather see him dead then honest. "My mother is in a mental hospital. My brother is…" **What was Frank?** "My brother is confused, addicted. I lost my father years ago. My aunt, his sister, was never a part of our lives." There. He'd done it. His raincloud extended over the whole table. He'd said more in that sentence to these five strangers than he'd ever uttered aloud his entire life._

_"Well done." He heard Alex mutter acidly. And her venom both killed and cured him. It reminded him of the real stakes. Not just their baby, but her very soul. He would lose everything good and loving and resilient about Alex, if he didn't stay the course. She would become this bitter mocking hag. This wasn't just anger. She was beyond anger. Anger was afraid of Alex right now. She was homicidal rage packed into a blue dress. He looked down at her ripped biceps, twined so tightly against her bosom and he imagined them springing loose and catching his chin like a speed bag._

_"What do you think? Is our best option rotational care during cases?" Rita posed "Custodial rights are assumed by the caregiver in case of emergency." She turned to Alex who abruptly turned away. "What is your average case length?" Rita queried, undaunted, to the back of the her head._

_"An average case lasts 16 days." He'd done this math in advance, looking back over their entire partnership. It wasn't a clean number. Some cases seemed interminable, others were over before they started, a couple still sat open - like a carton of sour milk you couldn't throw away and had to periodically drink from. Then there were trial obligations, which also weren't quantifiable. But for simplicity the answer was 16 days. __Bobby worried a napkin and look at his partner._

_"Average downtime in between?"_

_"6 days." He sighed. They'd once had a glorious 15 day lull, but only once. Six days hardly seemed enough time to reacquaint with his infant son. With heavy shoulders he sought solidarity with Alex, and again she rebuffed him._

_"So we have a rough idea of time contribution required." Rita spoke to all._

_"What if we have UM and we have an unplanned event?" Julia asked. They had quickly fallen in with the mediator's advice that they objectify the baby by calling him 'unnamed minor' then realized that UM was even better for expediency._

_"Yeah." Liz chimed in, "I have someone I trust with my daughter, but she won't add another child she's at capacity during the day."_

_"Have any of you heard of a nanny share?" The mediator unzipped her case. The wooden table top was now a clutter of colour coded duotangs, loose leaf paper and clasped nervous hands. All of the decorative contents, the boughs and orbs, shoved in an earthy heap down to one end._

_"Sure but it didn't work out. Personality clashes." Liz offered._

_"Figures." Alex snarked, her first contribution._

_"Shut it." Liz fired back._

_"Ladies that isn't productive." The sisters sat back duly chastised. "I'm here to help keep the discourse positive, to offer you options both old and new, and help you create a patchwork, it might not end up being the prettiest quilt but it will cover everyone's butts." Rita sent a sharp eye through each body "Remember this isn't just for Alex and Bobby and their child. Hopefully everyone will find some __benefit to accompany the sacrifice. The proverbial lean compromise." Rita had exactly the gravitas that Bobby had hoped she would. Her certainty begot nods, her solutions met with reluctant respect._

_"We'll pick a home. We'll call it basecamp. This person sacrifices the most perhaps, but also gains the most. The nanny resides here or at least works from here. The child(ren) are cared for here. This household will set the tone and the people living there make sure that a standard of care is being met."_

_"Oh goody." Liz griped. She knew that she was in line for these particular honours. "Sounds like I get all the administrative work._

_"You could see it that way. Or you could consider this. Your daughter Annabella will now be cared for in the comfort her own home. She will have lifelong friends, that are also her cousins. Do you have a hired cleaning service?"_

_Liz nodded._

_"Well most nannies will do light duty cleaning, especially as it pertains to the children. The host home get the benefit of that. It might be a net financial gain for you, should your home be chosen."_

_"But she's on Staten Island." Julia heaved counting the miles and recoiling at the effort. Jack and Julia had Tyler and Chloe. An infant and a kindergartener. A five year gap that had them firmly in child care agony._

_"Okay" Rita made copious notes "We'll put distance your con list Julia."_

_"Maybe Tyler should go to school closer to us." Liz mused cavalierly and all heads whipped around._

_"Whoa wait." Jack's hands flew up, "Now we're talking about changing our kid's school."_

_"That kind of big altruistic thinking will make this work." Rita nodded._

_"Why don't we all just move to Staten Island!" He spat._

_"Why don't we calm down." The mediator suggested._

_"This is crazy."_

_"No it's working." She corrected "We all have to dig deeper."_

_Just then a round of laughter wafted in from the other room and stalled the conversation. The calm made for an eerie juxtaposition. Looking into the dining room was like seeing the simple fairyland you dreamed, across fog you dear not breach. Bobby had secured a menu, a food gift he could afford, to repay the goodwill of his 'guests.' It arrived then, most timely, but it felt inadequate in comparison to what he was asking._

_Rita also had a gift, the gift of keeping on topic. "I've taken the liberty of acquiring some literature and pricing for several nanny services, each one comes with referrals. I have also drafted these spreadsheet templates. Trust me, they will save your lives." She handed out several hard copies "Of course this will all be done electronically. We'll have a master copy and a shared copy for real time editing. One for scheduling, one for concerns and updates, one for fixed costs and incidentals. Shall we get started on the finer details?"_

Of course it wasn't perfect, the whole tower could come down in a day. It's foundation was honour. But that night they'd forged a tenuous plan. Alex had rallied until the end. Sitting at the table as a dusty figurehead might - like the queen presiding over parliament - with an economy of words and a metal rod for a spine. Then when it was over she stood, took her coat and her bag and flagged a cab. She left Bobby on the curb. He hadn't heard from her since.

13 days and counting.

* * *

All things eventually came around.

Alex knew exactly what she would call her autobiography:

**From Lonely to Lonely: A Cop's Tale**

The phone rang. It was him. She knew it was him. It had _only been him_ for the last two weeks (no one else could get a call in edgewise, she'd prayed for a telemarketer). Two weeks without Bobby was like two weeks without food. And being 'starving' and pregnant was a recipe for defeat.

She was due on November 30th. At least that's what they'd written on her prenatal examination summary sheet. Alex knew better. Dr. Green had dated conception too late. This itty-bitty interloper, had been conceived almost from the first. Sometime during that violent sexual frenzy following the return of Nicole Wallace.

Alex liked to think she knew the exact time. In the front seat of the idling SUV. Off Canal Street (dangerously close to 1PP) during a wild thunderstorm. The splatters and rivers of rain on the windshield pocking and distorting her exposed breasts, the crash and boom eclipsing their moaning and panting, the wind rocking the vehicle in tandem with them. Bobby'd talked her into getting astride him. It hadn't been hard. _It had been very hard,_ and yet so simple. Mating on the clock, as it turned out.

"Someone will see." She'd whispered.

"Live a little." He'd urged his voice dripping with sex. Now that day was reduced to a series of erotic flashes. She remembered almost knocking the gear into DRIVE with her knee. She remembered how the button had flown off the front of her slacks and pinged around the cabin like shrapnel. She remembered licking him from chest to chin, like a salty ice cream cone. And she remembered luring him into her honeypot. She remembered so much, that she felt flush standing there in her kitchen. She almost remembered herself to orgasm.

The shrill _drrrrrrring_ of the phone brought her back. Him again. Alex had to bite her own fingers to stop from picking it up. She was still seething. She wasn't the only thing knocked up, so was his stupid plan. Playing pass the potato with a baby was not a solution, it was a recipe for attachment disorder. Goren had taken her simple exit strategy and mocked it. Imagine! Twisting the knife over calamari starters. He'd let her sit there like surplus while they all plotted her child's future.

Alex pulled open the cupboard door and eyed a bottle of merlot. It had been staring at her for months. A glass wouldn't hurt. She looked at her belly, he was done baking wasn't he? She badly needed a drink. So there in the sanctity of her kitchen, she did it. She poured a big glass and let the soft guilty burn and tang warm her.

_Drrrrrrrrring. _Him again. Whenever he had a moment.

Alex wished she and Liz were close. She wanted a sister, moreover she wanted _the sisterhood_: the clothes swapping, stories over tea, cheering each others milestones cameras in hand. But she'd made peace with reality. Elizabeth was moral, financially comfortable and married, it was a better start then most children got. Of course her sister was also self-righteous, sharp and narrow-minded. They just weren't bred to be friends, but from a distance there was respect. Liz was a good choice, close but not too close. Bobby had ruined everything. He was on a subconscious quest to correct what had been done to him, but her family wasn't his to manipulate.

And then there was the lying. He hadn't told her his plan. Alex couldn't pinpoint when her loathing of secrets had begun (maybe in the schoolyard). But she knew it had solidified, with Joe. She hadn't even known her husband for the last four months of his life. And that still pinched. That he'd died a stranger, with fake ID in his pocket, playing war games for the NYPD. She hadn't even known he was running a bust that day. She hadn't known anything. All she'd gotten was bad news from left field. The stupid wife. The stupid widow. She wasn't going back to being a dupe. Never mind that the situations were apples and oranges. The point was she _felt_ the same. _Betrayed._

_Drrrrrrrrring_

She took another long draw of wine. Alex was thankful she didn't have to see his face at the moment, she might smash it.

**_Or kiss it._**

**_Or melt into it._**

No smash it.

* * *

"So far we've found that when the bot kills it's opponent with a knife, it strikes one to the neck, one to the thigh, two to the chest. One, one two." It was all Greek to Deakins. He stood over Goren, and behind the tech and listened to them babble about patterns and embedded encrypted easter eggs.

What Jimmy did know was that Goren was off. He seemed more laconic than usual. Jimmy made it his business to keep a watchful eye on his 'fighters'. When Goren was reaching saturation his words started to slip into one another, a slurry mess on his tongue. Then they hardened, setting his jaw, causing his eyes to hang low in his face. Hound dog eyes.

And Deakins' shrewd gaze saw something else. Fatigue. His detective was pulling more mental weight then he was used to. There were physical leaves for guys that worked the factory. Guys that twisted at the waist, or hefted hundred pound boxes over their heads, or dropped low on cracking knees to peer under a chassis. But there was no acknowledgement for mental strain. There was no regard for the someone like this detective who held the bloated, dead weight of a corpse and their clamoring family on his head. And Deakins knew that for all the imperfect twitching and spasmodic limbs, Goren treasured perfection. No loose ends, and a balance (of tactic, of energy, of mercy) inside the pursuit. But that balance wasn't free. Temperance never was. Something had to be lost. It was his youth.

Deakins decided then that he was going to insist the big man take his vacation days - all two weeks of them - after Lynn Bishop. He was going to send Goren back to Eames to reset his head.

They all turned to the computer screen. 'Brought to you by Abe McVee.' Presented there boldly.

They had a name.

* * *

_**Disgusting, child abandoning, cheapskate.**_ Bobby stared down at Abe McVee. He was ready for a cage match. Trash talking to get the blood pumping. _**You're fuckin' lucky to be a father! Fuckin' lucky to have the love and trust someone so small and pure. You useless bag of flesh. It'd be better if you were dead! There's honour and lore and firelight stories about the father lost at sea, or in the line of duty, or in pursuit of a destiny. What does your kid have? 'My dad is a skinny little loser that lives in a aging walk-up in Bushwick with 2 other man-children, and he spends my child support on CPUs and LCDs.'**_

White rage.

It wasn't hard to muster. Goren had felt a variation on this sentiment, ever since Walter had upped sticks, and left two adolescents to hold the tattered scraps of their mother's mind together with spit and prayers.

"Bet your wife would like to know about that, huh? Because according to this paper you're 20 grand short of your child support."

"No I'm not." But that was lost in the roar of a freight train.

"What's the matter your lawsuit wasn't going well for ya? Huh? So you had hurt your family? Is that what it is?" Each word higher and louder and more vicious.

"I told you… he paid me…"

"Lash out at Jack!? Lash out at your wife!?"

"He didn't want me to tell anyone. He didn't want Neil to find out! And my wife, that's all settled her lawyer just hasn't filed the papers yet. I'm telling you the truth call my wife." McVee was mottled with indignation.

Bobby had an out of body experience. In the midst of a full-bore assault. Someone (Alex again? A higher power?) tapped gently on his shoulder and said **_'wait'_**. Nothing more, just **_'wait'_**. And fear gripped him. Not external. The dawning awareness of a horrible mistake. He staggered out of the room muttering, no longer under the influence.

"Croydon. Croydon. McVee is another Croydon"

"Who's Croydon?" Bishop was bewildered.

"He ran out on his wife. Hitchens she used him to get at me, the pattern, one one two that's Wally Stevens…"

"I don't know who you're talking about?" She tried to keep up.

"He was an actuary he had a pattern of five. Five notes, five pins… Eames would have known."

"I'm not following." Bishop bit. _**Enough about Eames already.**_ "What do you want us to do with McVee?"

"Well, send him home and give him my apologies." And Goren felt empty, alone. Sallow and sunken and silly. Dancing on a string for a couple of powerful hands. There were two puppeteers at work here. _**Alex you bitch.**_

**_Right. She was one of them. She was wrecking him._**

**_And who?_**

**_Who?_**

_**Of course. Someone else was sinking into his own pit of despair. Someone else was losing his partner. Bloodmatch is a creation of Cadogan and Colby. It's that little asshole Neil Colby.**_ He swivelled on Bishop.

"Neil. It's Neil. It's about yearning, he misses his partner."

* * *

**_"It's primitive. Panic is a primitive emotion. That's how he felt without his partner."_**

Rock bottom.

12 steppers knew it intimately. When it became abundantly clear that you had no lower to go. Maybe you hit that point with your head inside a shit stained toilet, or your cock inside a tranny trick, or sprawled out in a downtown drunk tank, or… Sitting in the carpeted corridor outside Alex's apartment, knees drawn up, useless hands dangling between thighs, body wafting up the odours of a 14 hour work day, Robert Goren hit rock bottom. She was in there. He'd heard her shuffle to the door. He'd felt her presence on the other side. Warm Alex. He craved the tickle of her amber hair and the sweep of her amber eyes like some men craved the amber inside a bottle.

But.

She.

Just.

Wouldn't.

Open.

The.

Door.

At first, still feeling feisty and battle ready, he'd banged righteously with broad palms. "Alex?! Alex open up." Then when those palms had begun to sting, he'd started kicking the jamb with his shoe. Then fifteen minutes later (still fending off defeat) he'd begun nodding hard against the wood with his forehead. It took less then five minutes to start seeing those mythical stars. He swayed, feeling inebriated. And finally collapsed to security of the floor. This was dangerous, erratic behaviour. Everyone on the 4th floor could hear that he was a man on the brink. Someone was going to call the cops, if they hadn't already.

"Alex. Listen. Please listen. I need you." He spoke to the door, just as he once done the screen of a confessional. He was lapsed, but still catholic. He suspected that she was there, maybe even on the floor with him, he didn't need to shout. "I almost messed up again today. I almost Croydon'd another innocent man. I walked right into it. They laid the trap and I took bait. She follows my lead Alex. She doesn't know. She doesn't understand." He felt a hot rush to the face. But big boys didn't cry, and the impulse was as ephemeral as the blink that washed it back. "I need you. You make it work. You make everything work. I can't do this without you. I'm fucked up. My father fucked me up and my mother finished me off. I can't _see_ clearly without you." He pressed his palm to the cool smooth surface that separated them. "I love you." Once upon a time those words had stuck in him like a stone, now they flowed in and out with the air. Without fear. Without recrimination. Alex had done that for him. "I love you. Please Alex, let me in."

Nothing.

Silence.

16 days without Alex. It felt like 16 years. He shouldn't have called her family. He shouldn't have played God. If he had to choose between her and a baby, he chose her.

"Alex?"

"Alex?"

And so he sat there until his bum went numb, until his side ached until he conceded that a 43 year old man (in fair shape) wasn't built for this kindergarten stuff. He pushed up and tamped down the demons that insisted she would never talk to him again. That whispered, _**she's filing for a new partner.**_ That cackled,_** she'll go through with adoption.**_ He tamped down all of them down just long enough to stagger from that low rise, and into a too bright New York night. Like a hobo he unlocked his mustang, then notched back the seat and tried to sleep her off.

* * *

His cellphone was shrill.

He was disoriented, and stiff, and with the smell of motor oil in his nose, he was pretty sure he'd been kidnapped and thrown into someone's trunk. He jammed a finger under his tie, it was trapped between his body and the leather seat, slowly, slowly asphyxiating him. His phone rang again.

_**Deakins?**_

When Bobby spoke, his voice sounded like it'd been dragged naked down a gravel road. "Goren." His watch said 3:53am.

"Bobby."

He blinked. That didn't sound like Deakins.

"Bobby!"

"Alex?" He cleared his throat and gave his cheek a slap. He was dreaming.

"Bobby come over. Please. I'm bleeding." She sounded urgent and hysterical.

And the phone bounced off the console and into dark somewhere. His body propelled from the car by a great unseen shove. He took the stairs two at a time, so maybe he was in a little better then 'fair' shape. He slammed on her door. He'd break it in, he really would. But this time it flew open.

"I'm bleeding. I'm bleeding." She kept muttering, so small and round and drawn. And he gathered her up just as she was, tank top, pajama shorts, bedhead.

"It's okay. You're okay." He kissed her crown, and tucked her in, because the weight of her was simply exquisite.

"You didn't leave." She said as they flew down the hallway.

"No."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Why did they always sync up so perfectly? It was something not meant for labelling. She put her arms around him best she could in the glooming peace that morning brought. Their juvenile feud had played out to the last, now they quietly clung inside that elevator and waited to see what fate had in store.

* * *

7lbs 8oz.

Bobby looked down and took stock of himself, of his goals, of what he could offer this pink writhing parcel swaddled in blue. This human secret. His son. His heart beat faster and faster and his breath came in short puffs. Panic. Joyful panic. He braced one hand on the bed and the other hand cupped his son in a cradle hold. A _whole person_ balanced on his forearm. A _whole person_ who was little more then a glorious wisp of fresh air. The bleeding had been normal. Just a matter of course for some mothers. The labour had been mercifully short. Their baby an apgar of 2, with full healthy cheeks and a lick of dark hair.

Now came the hard part, living.

He didn't want to put the child down. Bobby bent low with him and pressed moist lips to Alex's forehead. She was sleeping like the dead. Like she hadn't in weeks. She looked older. A smudge of ash beneath each eye.

"I have to go." He murmured. He wanted to tuck that baby close like a running back and tear down the halls. He wanted to torch 1PP so he could leave without looking back. He wanted to marry Alex and start digging postholes for their white picket fence. But he simply roused her with kisses. "I have to go." He said again. It was quarter after seven and he still smelled like a farm animal. She kissed him back hazily.

"Where?" Her voice was far away.

"Work."

She shook herself a bit, and opened her eyes. "Of course." She was so rumpled in her hospital gown. He wanted to dim the lights and climb in and sleep wrapped all around her. She pulled up on the pillow with a bit of a pained squeak. "I'll take him." Alex gestured for her child.

"You're okay?" Bobby was worried, worried that they hadn't bonded.

"I'm okay." Alex tried to smile. "I'll feed him."

"I…" He held the baby away a little.

"I won't hurt him." Her face was etched. "The fight is over, you won." She tucked her baby close and flicked away a rogue tear. "It's too late for me, I love him now." And he saw it in her, reverence - the bow of her head, the glow in her eyes, and the sacrifice of her flesh - an engorged nipple pushed into a very small mouth.

"What do you want me to say?" He asked, "To Deakins? To the squad."

She thought for a moment. "Nothing. Don't say anything."

His brows went up.

"I'll text you this afternoon. Tell whoever you're with." Smart. Then it would be a surprise all around. He missed her. He missed her mind. Even now in this small semi-private room he felt an ocean apart.

"If I leave here Alex. I want back in. You can't do that to me again."

"I told you, the fight is over." The words were hushed. Every ounce of her intention was on the boy she held "I'll give you a key."

Relief flooded him. He nodded and almost collapsed with exhaustion, but he couldn't rest he had a murderer to bring in.

"Bobby?" Her voice stopped his broad back at the door. "Be safe."

The stakes were raised.


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Mea Culpa. I have no excuse for the long break, except story fatigue. I'm going to keep writing of course, but I can't promise the same consistency. Thanks for continuing to read.**

* * *

**MAD HOPS**

"I've got two weeks coming."

"After this?"

"Yeah. Deakins is practically forcing me out the door."

"He must think you need it."

"I do."

"I know you do." Alex had watched Bobby over these last months. Truthfully she'd felt a little guilty for not keeping up her part of the bargain. So she had tried her best, in their (off the clock) moments of healthy connection, to lift him a little. It had worked, for the most part. He hadn't snapped. But every now and then she would see the bark split, and the soft green beneath bending and twisting under the strain. "How is Jimmy anyway?" She asked. She kind of missed their captain. Secretly Alex toggled between professional admiration and feminine appreciation.

"_Jimmy_ is fine. Bit of an asshole lately. I think he misses you."

"Awww..." Holed up the way she was, she felt like a figment of someone's imagination. It was nice to be missed.

She couldn't see Bobby roll his eyes. "Lynn is going back to OC soon."

"Oh? _Lynn_ is it now?"

Bobby smiled. Bishop wasn't so bad. Now that they were staring down the end of their tenure. Goodwill was always easiest with boundaries. It had been so hard not knowing when it would end. Of course he'd known the length of gestation, and of course he'd known the length of Alex's leave, as mandated by the state and the NYPD. The challenge was not knowing how many physical cases would fit into that span. Everytime they'd caught a new one he'd died a little, because they would have to see it out to the bitter end. At some point he'd sat down and done that math (in times of trial he clung to his data). His average solve rate with Lynn Bishop was 21 _long_ days. He'd kept a calendar to tick off the bondage as they went. He was exaggerating of course. Once he'd found his momentum inside the case it was fine. But not until that point.

"Yeah Lynn."

"You going to keep in touch with _Lynn_?" Alex asked.

He marked the rise and fall of her voice on his inboard equalizer, and savoured every bit of her dysfunctional inflection. "Probably not. But I've increased my network and that can't hurt."

_**Add another friend to the pile.** _Instead she said. "So, we'll have Christmas this year."

He thrilled. _**We!**_ A real family Christmas.

"Optimistically." He cast a glance over his hunched back and around one protruding shoulder pad. No one in the squad room seemed to care an ounce about him, and Bishop was standing a hundred distractions away at the filing cabinets. The coast was clear, so he whispered, "Is he sleeping?" _He._ That wee profound _he_. _He_ that had still not been named 5 days later.

"Nope. He's staring up at me from under my enormous boob."

The detective guffawed. "I'm jealous."

The mother snarked "Don't be."

"We have to…" Bobby's eyes darted around furtively. "We have to name him."

"What? X isn't working for you?" Her humour tickled, her humour burned.

"It isn't working for anyone."

Just then Detective Belluci wandered over for a chat with Detective Sawyer. The pair stood right in front of him. In the negative space between their bodies Goren watched Bishop stir, then shift from one heel to the next, and then clomp across the bullpen with a file held high. There was determination in her wiry form. Irritation zipped through him. **_All these fucking people._** He wanted to talk baby names.

"You have an audience." Alex stated, feeling the shift.

"Yeah. Look, I have to go. I'll see you tonight. Whenever I can..."

"Uh huh. You can't miss me, I'll be the Jersey cow wedged into the sofa."

* * *

Bobby was feeling chatty on this case.

Maybe chatty was the wrong word.

Light was better.

Candid, even more so.

And _of course_ he felt that way. There was something warm and rich channelling through him because he was **_a father!_** Punch the air and high five a stranger! _**A father!** _And he was an ambitious new father (was there any other kind?) This was his chance. He was going to be different. So amazingly different. His kid was going to have everything he hadn't. And it was _so_ easy be 'optimistic guy' today. The sun was shining, and his next case was going to be with Eames, and Christmas was in the air (really Black Friday - but close enough) and he had a new family! Robert Goren hadn't ridden a wave this high since… Since never. He let the thoughts, the hopes, the fantasies gallop unchecked through his mind, remembering with reverent glee, that wisp of a human he'd cradled in his arms last night.

_**Maybe I'll teach him a little b-ball. He's going to be tall.**_ Then, _**maybe that's overly optimistic. His mother is a hobbit.**_

And he smiled at no one but the air.

"Why are you grinning?" Bishop asked from across the console, because she was getting comfortable too. Comfortable enough to call him out.

"Just thinkin' about your sad P. Diddy drapes." His eyes twinkled.

"Very funny." She pulled up primly in her seat. "You're in a good mood."

"Is that illegal?"

"I'd have to arrest you if it was." Now her lips were peeling up off her teeth. His joy was catching.

"Well, I'll try to," he passed a heavy hand over his face, using it to scrub the emotion. "Keep it in check."

She chuckled.

It was almost friendship.

* * *

Newton's law, which is intrinsic to the human condition, was also intrinsic to the moods of Robert Goren. The moment they came face to face with Coach Perry Powell, the emotions that had soared high into the balls of his cheeks dropped to his gut like a case of dysentery.

Grey walls, grey hair, grey face.

Powell was sobering.

He had something, a chip on his shoulder? A monkey on his back? A constant companion? Choose your idiom, all were applicable. And even in his ecstasy that sadness was like a magnet to Bobby. Perhaps because melancholy was his set point. His emotional mean. Or perhaps because the discordant feelings were the ones he read best. It was soon clear that this homicidal mess wasn't so much about hoop dreams as pipe dreams and lost dreams. And like all misery, there was enough to share. In short order Powell unloaded his pop psychology all over the tall detective.

"I see a problem with authority figures, you defy them you disrespect them. The truth is you're intimidated by them. It's the mark of a boy with an indifferent father. His absence took the joy out of playing basketball."

And Bobby faltered on that sucker punch. All the old insecurities came rushing back. _**Can I do this? What do I have to offer a kid? More of the shit my dad gave me? A legacy of insecurity and maladjustment.**_ He whirled on Powell and fought against his baser nature. He fought hard not to be worked, not to spiral out over his own baggage. Because this personal attack was necessary. This was the stuff that built the profile. **_Get it out old man, show me who you really are. _**And so it unfolded. He saw how Powell offered unsolicited guidance. He saw Powell's pride. He saw how Powell loved the game. He saw that Powell held the practitioning of it to a very high standard. Sometimes...

It was there that Bobby found exactly what he was looking for. Selective morality.

On the heels of that observation, he had a premonition: This was the guy. Case closed. _**That was easy. **_Of course on the boulevard outside of the school, Bishop (that little keener) reminded him that there was the small issue of _evidence_.

"Should we get a warrant for his apartment?" She asked.

Bobby stalled. He pulled his gloves out of his pocket and slid them on very deliberately. The truth was he didn't want that warrant. He wanted to stay on his cloud - unit number nine - with thoughts of his girl and their nursery. But that wasn't the job. The job demanded they pry back that coach's skull and take a gander inside. And the only way to do that (without a shrink or a reciprocal saw) was a visit to his inner sanctum, his home.

"Yeah. Lets get a warrant." He said at last. And his word moved mountains, Bishop was on the phone with Carver's clerk in an instant.

* * *

Deja vu.

It struck Bobby the moment he walked into Perry Powell's one bedroom Harlem apartment.

"Cranberry seedling." He mused. "With my dad it was an avocado pit in a glass of water." Here it came, the tsunami. In a heartbeat he was pulled down by the undertow, and thrust to the bottom of the sea. He wished he had the gift of emotional stability. He wished he could fix an image of his family in his mind and use it to deflect all the crud, but he couldn't. He was so good because he took it in. He moved around that bachelor pad, chronicling it in all the ways he needed to. But making it personal. Because it was. This _was_ his father. It might be him in a decade.

"TV. He stood over the sink and he ate, while he watched TV."

"Something you do?" Bishop asked from far away.

"No I found the same arrangement when I cleaned out my dad's apartment." He missed the beat that his honesty made her skip.

In the bedroom were faded linens, and two sad, flat pillows - compacted into dense rectangles by years of one weary heavy head. But it was tidy. The bed was tucked to military spec with the diagonal slice of hospital corners. In the bathroom, sat a chipped blue tumbler holding an Oral B with fraying bristles, and a wilted tube of Crest. Melted bars of white soap sat beside every basin - no body wash, no loofahs, no decadent bath salts. In the closet was one nice suit in drycleaners plastic (purchased circa '99 if the number of buttons were any indication). Bobby thumbed through the meagre wardrobe cataloguing insights. _**Special occasions are few and far between. There's pride of ownership. Value placed on function over form. Impeccable hygiene but time-worn tools.** _This apartment said nothing about Bracho or Fergin. There weren't any trophies or momentos. Because these murders weren't serial. They were feral.

Bobby sighed.

"You okay?" Bishop asked.

"Fine."

"Get anything?"

"No." It was a simple syllable, which Eames would have translated to mean 'just every single thing I need to know, about who this suspect really is'. Lynn Bishop? Well, she got a whiff of those hidden depths, but she was reticent to push and then sure she'd dreamt it.

"Okay let's go then." She said with a hint of impatience. She re-locked the front door, anxious to shrug off the weight of all these repressed men. Outside it was cold. Seemingly colder and darker then when they'd arrived. The first delicate flakes of snow snagged on her vibrant hair. "That was a waste of time." She bit.

Funny. He'd been thinking exactly the opposite.

Lynn Bishop would leave thinking she knew Robert Goren. She'd think that in their 6 months together she'd sussed him out. She would be recounting their stories for years. About the time he'd grabbed her throat and made her the victim ("he loves his role play," she'd laugh in the break room). About the time he'd gotten bitch slapped in interrogation. About the preternatural bond he had with Alexandra Eames. Even about the little things, like that stupid black 'blankie' uh, binder. And the way he didn't hear when he was in the zone, really, he was _legally_ deaf.

But when it was all said and done, the truth was she hadn't even nicked the surface.

She had no idea.

* * *

"I know this guy." Bobby told Deakins and anyone within earshot.

Did he ever.

"He's a lonely man with a shot at happiness. He's going to fight for it."

This was what Bobby knew: He knew the stink of male inadequacy. He knew the snap and sizzle of youthful ambition. All those boys. Boys, made of free floating positive energy, looking, hoping, praying, to be harnessed and moulded into success, but receiving something entirely different. Bobby couldn't blame them. He'd been there, an anonymous kid from the wrong side of the tracks, so young, so desperate to find someone to believe in him. Bobby had once been awash in brand spanking new testosterone. Bobby had once tripped over suddenly man-sized feet. Bobby had once sought a messiah, a mentor, _a father_.

And naturally that thought conjured the ghosts of all of the _half-men_ he had rendezvoused with: his dad, his brother, his high school basketball coach Ernie Cooke. Coach Cooke, who had written him off at the first hint of rebellion. Coach Cooke, whose timely faith might have helped yield a completely different man. But no. They'd all taken a look at his big, silent, surly, pubescent body passed on him. Not one of them had plumbed the depths. Not one of them had nurtured the tiny light inside of him. Yeah sure, J.V power forward, to loner bookworm, to overwhelmingly self-sufficient. From pain, to pain, to pain. At least that's how it had felt at the time. He still couldn't quite see that the metamorphosis was more like caterpillar, to chrysalis, to butterfly. He was a butterfly.

The path he'd eventually carved out, the cop's path, had put him in a lot danger a lot over the years. There had been a lot of death wishes, a lot of recklessness. He'd ducked, he'd taken cover, he'd faced off with so many perps and he'd known so many times that it just wasn't his day to die. But maybe the first real bullet he'd dodged was that manipulative high school sports machine.

He was ready to avenge the boy he'd been (and his descendants).

He was ready to finish Powell.

* * *

He knocked gently on her front door at almost 9pm. "It's me."

"Come in." She called.

That was new. From barricaded doors (and hearts) to 'why are you even knocking?' His head was spinning with speed of life.

He peaked around the frame. Alex was on the couch, as promised, sporting a bumpy homemade ponytail, navy blue sweats, a large donut of a pillow circling her middle, and a massive mammary (at least triple what he knew it to be) milky white and exposed. And there was someone tiny (so tiny) in a miniscule blue sleeper pulling at her for sustenance.

Bobby tore and kicked at his outdoor layers, and zombie walked straight up to the scene, not sitting on the couch, instead dropping to his knees in front of them. 'Gorening' them with his tilted head and freakish intensity.

"Are you aiming for the other tit or what?" Alex lampooned.

"This is fascinating." He raised an intrepid hand to the dusting of dark brown hair, on that perfect grapefruit sized skull. "Connor." He murmured. Alex frowned. "What about Connor?"

He'd been thinking about this all day too. Between Powell and Bishop and bodily functions. A name. Because once he had a name, their boy would be real.

"No."

He looked up sharply. Her certainty cut through the fog. "Why?"

"I don't know." Alex shrugged.

"You'll have to do better than that."

"No I don't. We should each have 3 vetoes, no explanation needed."

"Oh?" He gave her a look. "There are rules?" This was also new.

"I've been in this house all day." Her face was scary blank. The under-stimulated Alex monster. "I could run the country."

He smiled. She could.

"Oliver." She stared him down. The game was afoot.

"No." He said. "Michael."

"No." She sliced. "Henry."

He guffawed. "Hell no."

"You want to play this game with me Goren? You really want to roulette this kid's name?"

He stared her down. "Bring it."

Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Apparently absence made the heart grow sassy. But fine. By her count he had one more choice and then victory was hers.

"Jude." He said softly.

"Like Law?"

"Among other prominent historical figures." He defended. Noticing she hadn't immediately levied her final veto.

"Judas?!" Her eyes were annoyed discs.

"Judah!" He corrected. "It means praise."

"Is this a Catholic thing?" She didn't want religious associations to plague her child.

"Christian. But that's not why I chose it. I like the way it sounds. Strong but sensitive."

"Let me think about it." She said at last.

Bobby stroked his son's head. "Don't you want to counter?" He asked with hushed appreciation. He leaned in to press his nose to the back of that fuzzy warm dome. The baby smelled like liquid sugar, like the stamen of a wildflower. And Bobby banked the smell of Jude. Somehow he knew Alex would acquiesce. He knew that it was his son's name.

"Maybe later."

"Need time to regroup?" He poked, because he missed the subtle competition with her. He missed their daily detective banter.

"I won't be goaded into using my last veto." She snapped affectionately, because Alex Eames could bite with love. All the while she secretly thought maybe she wouldn't counter.

_**Jude.**_

She rolled it around in her mind. She liked it too. It reminded her of Bobby, the name Bobby. A sweet diminutive that contrasted nicely with the grown up, old fashioned Robert. It also reminded her of Bobby the man, sober and romantic. She loved the man that Bobby was. And because the ball was in her court, they fell silent, and watched intently as a little mouth fell off of a distended nipple, locked into a puckered O.

"Can I hold him now?" Bobby asked from his place on the floor. **_Huh? Can I? Can I?_ **went unspoken. And Alex smiled knowing all of his urgent, innocent, desires were also the influence of his name. The whimsical part. The part that was better suited to a little boy. Names mattered. She wanted that for her child. There was a lot of Bobby already plain in the infant, his chin, his nose, his dark hair. Now it was time for a sprinkle of je ne sais quoi.

"Sure, you can hold him." She patted the soft sunken seat beside her. When he was settled and receptive, she shuffled son to father.

The sudden freedom made her feel lightheaded.

"I can actually grab a shower!" The idea was way more exciting than it should have been. Alex uncoiled, stood and stretched those stiff, shrunken muscles to the sky.

"Take your time." Bobby murmured 'praying' over his bundle, cooing softly, pushing one large fingertip in the cove of five small ones.

Watching them so wrapped up in one another, Alex felt like yesterday's news. And in the same moment, that feeling of being alone, _of being completely invisible_, wasn't unwelcome. There was relief in being single, even if it only lasted the length of a shower.

She smiled at no one but the air.

For the first time in months, she was herself.

For the first time, she could see how this might work.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, I'm travelling. This is the longest I hope to go without an update. As recompense this is a bit fluffy. Thank you reviewers (especially the consistent ones). Valentine51 I appreciated your broader grasp of the psychology of the character I am presenting in Alexandra Eames. My understanding of Eames, as presented by canon, is that she has met her soulmate - and it's her job. Therefore her conflict here runs deep. It's strange to write about a woman that doesn't want the 'bliss' of family. And yet also wants it desperately. This is the line I'm trying to straddle.**

**Bobby however, is another story...**

* * *

_**What a difference a year makes.**_

He was standing inside FAO Schwarz with all of the other suckers. And the chaos was overwhelming. _People._ Writhing masses of people. People above, people below. People making a slow vertical ascent up Everest (if Everest were equipped with an escalator, and if awaiting you at the peak were a multicoloured, children's wonderland). Manufacturer's names proudly crowned stacks and stacks of this season's must-have boxes. And humanity clamoured (by some machiavellian design) to bring home those special gizmos. All this buzz. All this chaos. All of it created by some 'mad man' on 6th avenue.

And Bobby? He shouldn't have been here. This wasn't his scene. Bobby was a man who had opinions. He had actually uttered the words 'Bah Humbug' last year, aloud, in a fairly crowded diner, and completely without irony. And that same surly Bobby from 365 days ago had slandered 1PP's glamorous seasonal party, had lashed out at monkey suits and trash talked the office Christmas tree (that joyful, twinkling, martyr) calling it a 'Rockefeller wannabe'.

"Keep to the left people! _Keep to the left!_" A girl with thick dark rimmed glasses, wearing a Santa hat stood on stool and bellowed. She was waving her thin, red and white, candy cane arms like an air traffic controller. The walky talky on her hip beeped and pulsed with life. And like a good little serf Bobby and about a hundred others moved infinitesimally left, to please her.

No, last year's Bobby wouldn't recognize this guy.

But suddenly all the old versions of himself were irrelevant. Suddenly, having a 'baby's first' engraved Christmas tree ornament, from this massive toy-flogging icon seemed like a necessity. Because...

_**Jude. Yes! Jude.**_

He had been right. Alex had caved. And now they had Judah Jonathan Eames Goren. A mouthful to be sure, but packed with every ounce of goodness that they both brought to the table. Bobby's choice, followed by Alex's guiding light (her father), then her maiden name, butted up against his more prominent surname (a little like real life). Bobby had savoured the black block font on the birth certificate. Then memorized the motto and sweep of the state seal. EXCELSIOR! How apt. He felt like he was soaring. He'd run his thumb over the simple piece of paper so many times, he was surprised it hadn't grown soft and worn, or reverted to the pulp from whence it came.

He was ebullient. Not just because Jude was real, but also because he and Alex were immortalized on paper. A pile of bureaucrats had unknowingly paid homage to their duo.

_**Eames and Goren**_, right there pressed up against each other for eternity.

**_Eames and Goren_** the best cops in New York.

**_Eames and Goren_** the parents of the best little boy in New York.

Ebullient most of the time anyway. Reality still occasionally had it's way with him. Right now his arms were burning. _**Even ten ounces can seem like 10 tonnes when the whole flippin' staff is new and every idiot here spoiling their children.** _Ah, so there was a little Ebenezer in there after all. Bobby felt almost relieved that he wasn't losing his edge. So uncommonly happy was he. _New Bobby's_ predicaments only seemed to be _too much_ spirit, not enough stamina. N_ew Bobby _was standing in line at the checkout holding: the personalized ornament, a stuffed blue bear (bigger then Jude in actual dimension), a red plastic dump truck (possibly better suited to a toddler) and a couple of boxes of sweets from the Schweetz shop. Together it was an arm breaking (bank account breaking) act of pure indulgence. _New Bobby_ had a fresh fir tree strapped to the hood of his 'stang, sitting in an overpriced parking lot 4 blocks away. Yes, a_ tree!_ He'd bought it from an emo looking kid (complete with moody mouth, a black coat, a black voluminous scarf and black pants that tapered into retro adidas runners) on the bustling Upper East Side. And, rather then silently mock him, _new Bobby_ had wished him a 'Merry Christmas'. And as he pulled away from the curb _new Bobby_ had thought how much he loved this city, where a forest could sit nestled between T-Mobile and a Dunkin' Donuts.

And that wasn't all. No. _Hell no._ _New Bobby_ also had a trunkful of other festive knick knacks, garlands and balls and bows, some just purchased, others from Christmases past. He and Alex were going to do this up. Her list was in his pocket. And deep in her purse sat a shorter complimentary version. He was doing the lion's share because she had Jude in a sling against her chest. They were both bravely braving the city 3 days before Christmas.

And...

And there was something else.

Something else bank breaking that he'd bought.

Something nestled into the insulation of his wool coat, a small bulge trapped somewhere at the hem. Bobby'd worked his index finger at the silk seam inside his pocket, and pried a hole big enough to drop a velvet jewellers box through. He'd released a contented sigh when it had fallen down into the no man's land that lay beyond. The cop in him couldn't put something so valuable in an outside pocket, not during the busiest time of year, not on the pick-pocket rich streets of midtown Manhattan. And the boyfriend in him felt (quite strangely) that there wasn't a secret he could manage to keep. Not from Alexandra Eames. Not from his sixth sense wielding girlfriend. _**A box in his pocket? Pffft.**_ She would find her psychic little digits around it before he was ten minutes in the door.

No. This had to be _perfectly_ timed.

_Perfectly._

At that moment he felt a not-so-accidental nudge from behind. The cashier glowered his way. "Neeeeeeext!"

* * *

Almost by kismet, Bobby and Alex stepped off the elevators simultaneously and reunited in the corridor outside her apartment. Both with glazed weary eyes and both with stooped shoulders and lacerated palms from all of their plastic bags.

"Did you get everything?" Alex asked kicking open the door, keys in teeth. The apartment felt so warm and cozy after being out in the world.

"And then some." There was a hint of the old cynic there in the twist of his lips. He closed the front door, his hair and shoulders glistening from freak flurries.

"Good. I got it all too."

"Say we never have to go back out there _ever_ again." He ruffled manic fingers through his wet hair.

"I know. I've seen things." Her eyes were haunted. "Two women in the grocery store got into a fight over cranberry sauce. Apparently there's a 2 can limit. The bigger question is why did one of them need 40? Some cranberry terrorist plot?"

"I can beat that." He shot out. "I saw a grown man cry because the Bratz Doll he wanted didn't get put on hold."

Their eyes met dramatically across the room.

"We're _soooo_ glad to be home aren't we." Alex falsettoed toward the little bundle, mummy-wrapped to her chest by a length of stylish 'bandages.'. "And we're _soooo_ glad you're here daddy." She carefully began to unwind them, "We have a ice cream melting on the counter don't we Juju"

"Juju?" He made a face.

"Sure," She kissed the small boy's clear soft cheek, "Jude is juju, my little magic charm."

"Sacrilege." Bobby muttered. It hadn't taken long for her to twist his Christian offering into a voodoo thing.

"I told you I don't do religion."

"Fine. Seems a bit wrong on Christmas, but whatever." Honestly he was more worried that by the end of the day he'd be saying 'juju' too. It had a certain ring.

Without ceremony she plonked the baby into his arms "Here you go." And headed for the kitchen.

"You want to set up the tree?" She called some time later.

"Maybe after he goes down." Bobby held Jude easily. He was now hip to all the schedules and spewing all the baby lingo. And Jude was no longer lazy and boob drunk. Only one month on and his frenetic jerky limbs had smoothed out some, and his chestnut eyes were interested and bright.

"He can watch. Just stick him in the swing." Alex called irreverently from inside the refrigerator. She was hefting an absurdly large bird into the freezer. For a party of two, this particular turkey would be a tryptophanyl nightmare of sandwiches, stew, wraps and casseroles ad infinitum. But she didn't care, Alex was feeling extremely taken with the spirit this year. She was feeling... She was feeling... blessed. It was scary actually, the perfection of the moments stacking up upon one another this last 32 days. Each interval of emotional bliss, following on perfectly from the last.

Bobby had gone and wrapped up his last Bishop case in a timely 14 days (he was incentivised). And as it happened, he _had_ gotten his vacation days, and they _would_ have the season together. All of it. From now - the eve, of the eve of Christmas Eve - straight through to the ball dropping and bubbly on New Year's Eve, up until until the 4th of January when they would both return together. It was unheard of in their world. It was as if something greater than both of them had reached a broad hand down and swept clear a path for them, through all of the scribbled schedules and inconsequential obstacles of men.

"Uh okay." He called. "It will be kinda nice to have him watch us." Then looking down at the little eyes now slits and amended. "or snore. Maybe he'll just snore."

"Ha. Can you bring the tree up solo?"

"Yeah but I think I might have gone overboard."

Alex poked her head around the skinny partition wall. "What do you mean?"

"It's 8 feet."

"Bobby the ceilings are 8 feet. We agreed 6 would be plenty."

He shrugged.

She rolled her eyes.

"You're paying back my safety deposit when you punch a hole in the plaster."

"I'll cut it down a few inches."

"They couldn't do that at the lot? There are going to be pine needles everywhere."

"I'll clean that up too." He placated. Truth was he'd spent so much time wandering the 18 by 25 foot lot searching for the perfect specimen that he'd felt too ridiculous to do anything but grab it and run.

"You bet you will."

"I'm not the only one that has size issues. What was that? A 20lb turkey I watched you haul in here? We expecting a football team? Maybe a small choir?"

"Funny. You should take that show on the road." And so it went. They beat words back and forth like a ping pong ball. They'd always had good timing but now it had morphed from a gumshoe detective film, to Lucy and Desi.

"Why? There's so much quality material right here."

She let him have the last word. Alex was preoccupied with Christmas. She wanted it to feel like noel, she wanted it to taste like noel, she wanted it to smell like noel. She'd read somewhere that cloves stuck in an orange would waft a sweet spicy smell around your home. Crafty she wasn't, but how could anyone manage to screw that up. Now in every room there were cloranges (cloved oranges - her own word - when pommander seemed too highfalutin). There was something lush and maternal coursing though her, she was feathering their modest nest.

In the living room Bobby was contemplating the spirit as well. It felt like Christmas in her small apartment, in a way his never had or would. Alex had a floating shelf a - simple piece of lacquered crown moulding - that she used for knick knacks and photos and they had discovered that it affected the perfect mantel. So, one snowy length of faux bough later (combined with a host of lit tealights and a sprinkling of golden balls) and there was a pleasant soothing twinkle. Also the furniture in this room had been pushed into a new configuration. Her sofa and armchairs forming a tight L to the corner. The open side of the rectangle encompassed the 'mantel,' above which sat a smallish flat television, and in pride of place in the corner was the bare, hunter green, Douglas fir, that he had wrestled into position after snapping 6 inches off the crown. To Bobby the tiny room was near nirvana.

"I have stockings." Alex announced later. He raised his eyebrows, stockings hadn't been on the list. It would seem that today they had wandered the city separately but on a very similar trajectory. Him producing a Jude ornament. Her producing a Jude stocking. Both of them laughing at the emergence of these new sentimental fools. Then she unrolled a couple more, both obviously aged. One had a stain on the toe. Both of these two older stockings were obviously hand stitched (and then darned and re-darned). The first one, from fat quarters of festive motif, the second was beige and the front beautifully finished with a redwork angel Gabriel. Both were sturdy lined things.

"This one," Alex held up the patchy one "is mine. My mother loved to quilt. She made one of these for all of us. And anyone else that requested one." Alex looked sweetly nostalgic. And so intertwined was Bobby's heart with hers, that he ached a little for her. But she wasn't done. "And this one is my mom's. I won it in the posthumus lottery. I want you to have it."

"What!? No Alex. Shouldn't it stay with your dad. Doesn't he want it for…"

She cut him off. "Dad isn't who he used to be. He can't really be in the house at Christmas. All of the holiday stuff is in the attic. And we kind of pass him around." Bobby realized then, that since her mom had died he'd been her shoulder, he'd joined her in melancholia, he'd made her laugh, he'd tried to be her family, but they hadn't talked. Not really. Not about her transition from mothered motherless. Not since that night in the bunks at 1PP. Not since before she'd been his. He hoped he'd done enough.

"It would make me really happy if someone I loved was using it again." As she said it, she examined the fine red stitchwork on the cuff. And though he didn't gasp aloud, his body moved as though he had. They were _really doing this_. They were _so real, _here in this apartment, with their baby and their core shaking honesty.

"Okay. Okay sure." He said and then turned and cupped her cheeks and planted a long soft kiss on her brow. Alex leaned in weak and limp for several heartbeats. Then pulled back and kept on as though the brief interlude hadn't happened.

"I'll tack them to the front here." She showed him. And the finished product? A cursory glance would never detect that this apartment didn't have a wood burning Santa portal.

"Tree time!" Bobby bellowed an octave deeper clapping his hands.

She dropped to her haunches to gather up her small person. "I'll give him a final feed first."

"I'll get started then." Bobby sank, elbow deep, into the box of baubles. And as he began to remove them it became quite clear that Alex had very fixed ideas about the sequence and ritual of tree decoration. She was a lactating Pol Pot.

"No not there, to the left." or "You can't do garlands first." or "Really? _Every_ colour? are we going for gaudy or classic?"

He stopped gesturing with a fist full of tinsel. "Please master. Show me how it's done."

"First off put down the tinsel. Friends don't let friends use tinsel. I thought they stopped selling that stuff." She shook her head theatrically. "I'd swear you never had a tree."

Now it was his turn for honesty. "I didn't."

She went white. "Oh God Bobby. I'm sorry."

"No, no. Don't cry for me." He really hadn't suffered, he'd scarcely known different. They had lived such a modest working class life, that he wouldn't have gotten much more than a pittance for Christmas anyway. He'd never expected more then some clementines or a comic book or a bag of bargain brand underwear. When Christmas had tapered off completely he'd hardly noticed.

While roping the lights around their tree he spoke to her. "Sometime after my 8th birthday my mother stopped acknowledging the holidays. I can guess why, but I don't remember her reason. Her reasons for everything were distorted. We were all a little afraid of her. I got to celebrate at school and Frank and Dad tried a little, but it wasn't the same." Over Jude he could see that her eyes were round and glossy. He rushed to assure her "It was actually a relief to let mom have her way. It was peaceful."

Then she was on her feet, and then a dosey package was offloaded, and then she turned him, and then she was up on her tippy toes, and then length of her sympathetic form was pressed against him, and then her arms were twined around his neck, and then her soft moist lips were on his. It took but a wink for him to engage. For him to meet her ardency with his own.

"Why..." He murmured, sexually ambushed. And as she pressed, her t-shirt crumpled and the soft exposed skin of her tummy massaged his distended fly. She burrowed her thumbs into the soft hair over his ears. And her lips left damp trails all over his mouth and chin.

"It hurts me, that you hurt." And she was crying a little at the corners.

He murmured things like, "It's okay baby." And "It was nothing." And "I wouldn't trade a second." He really wouldn't, not now. Now he could see how every moment had dovetailed so neatly to bring him to his real family. She took his hands to lead him to her bed. But as she pulled he opposed her.

"Here?"

"Here." He wanted to have her in the clearing of boxes and bags, under a half lit tree, and near their sleeping infant. "You're ready?" They hadn't been together postpartum. His hand slipped low between her thighs and cupped her through her jeans. As though a clairtangent, trying to suss out her vulnerabilities (any half healed tears, any deep tissue bruising).

"I'm ready." She moved against his palm.

And so she raised her arms and he tugged off that thin shirt. And then his sweater. And then her bra. And he sighed when he felt her swing free against his bare flesh. Her breasts were damp (from spent milk) and heavy (with the potential for more). He pulled away from her, and began throwing loose couch cushions to the floor. And then he did the same with her small body, only her landing was softened by restraint and love. He crawled up between her legs.

"Can I taste it?" He asked.

"What?" Alex lay spread and meditatively blank, simply enjoying the weight of him.

"Your milk."

She squirmed. "I just… I just fed…" She didn't know what having his mouth on her would yield.

"Good. Just a few drops."

His face was there in short order. Kneading and lapping until she felt that familiar tissue tingle (in more ways then one). "_Oh god!_" To orgasm and to let down simultaneously. It was an amalgam of the woman she had become, both lover and mother. And Bobby may have gotten more then he bargained for. In passion her nipples became spigots. He scrambled for her shirt to stem the short bursts of pearlescent liquid. And they laughed the laugh of the artless.

"Imagine if you hadn't fed." He cawed.

"A firehose." She burst.

He pressed his forehead to hers. "It's nice." He whispered, "Sweet. Mild."

"Glad you enjoyed it."

"I enjoy you." He looked into her so deeply that she shuddered. "I love you." And it was fierce, and so was his mouth on hers forcing out the blood, and his hands, ripping away the barriers. And when, at last, his big body forced her bare thighs apart, it put her in mind of a stallion down there, so hard and wild, and she had a moment of fear.

"Careful... Bobby... Don't hurt me."

He froze. _Steady on._ He took a deep breath. He pressed his hands flat to the floor to quell the tremors of urgency. He grabbed another pillow and slipped it beneath her hips to raise them. When he finally nudged back her folds, it was perhaps the most erotic tender moment of her life. So considerate, so measured, inch by inch, honouring any tension, panning her face for discomfort, but there wasn't any, only the delicious anguish of coupling. She wrapped around him, the serpent to his rod. The flat of her soles contoured to his calves, her arms snug at his middle. And there was so much of him above her, and so much below. But she hung on tight. And she was strong. Anchoring his body to her, suctioning to his pelvis, with a demented desperation that he liked. No _loved._ He loved how she perverted their union with her maniacal grip. It made him harder. And Bobby didn't need but a few inches to wobble back and forth in her. Combined with pressure, and the gurgle of her wetness, and soon he clenched his buttocks, bowed his back and pledged everything.

It was damp and glowy and romantic in the aftermath. Two candlelit bodies curled into one another. A nearly naked tree officiated. And a baby swayed on an invisible breeze. And Bobby knew that this was it. This_ felt_ like the perfection he sought.

"Alex?"

"Hmmm?"

"I love you."

"Love you too." She garbled and tucked in more.

Should he spring up and get it? Or should he let their limp locked bodies be symbol enough?

"I want us to stay together always."

"Me too." She was dosey.

_**Don't fuck this up Goren. Don't spit it out halfway. Don't mumble…**_

He didn't.

"Then… Then will you marry me?"


	30. Chapter 30

**UNREQUITED**

The alarm was a hot, sharp spike to the temple. _Just like that_, two weeks of bliss evaporated into this vicious honking, like a gaggle of deranged Canada geese.

"Okay, okay…" Alex surrendered sleepily, and he reached over her to slap at the snooze button. Then he pulled her close.

"You ready for this?" He asked, meaning the day, their first day back.

"Coffee." She croaked.

Little known fact, Alex was usually 4 or 5 cups to the wind by the time she greeted him every morning. 4 or 5 cups of steaming, high quality, java was what it took to turn an ante meridiem monster into a first rate detective. Bobby was quite the opposite. He had a natural morning vigour. For him coffee was a social more. He liked the camaraderie shared over a cuppa. He liked bringing her one, while having his hand wrapped around another. He liked feeling the warmth work down his throat, and soothe him from the inside out. But Bobby never felt very stimulated by it.

"Tea? Me?" He joked. He was in his morning masculine state. Hard and restless.

"Ugh. What is it with men." Her eyes still sticky with sleep, her amber hair a fuzzy cloud on the pillow. She would sell her soul for 10 more minutes.

"C'mon…" He cajoled.

"Leave me alone." She groaned.

"C'mon..." He urged again.

"Okay go ahead." The words were flip. As if yielding the right of way in traffic. And he did, he pressed her flat on her front, prostrate against mattress. And then he mimicked that pose, lying fully atop her, trapping her thighs with his thick heavy two. He reached a big hand between them to shove her panties down. And the cloth stayed there at an odd angle bridging the gap between her legs. Then came the genital blitzkrieg. Alex surrendered to him choking out a little moan when he entered her. She could scarcely do anything else. Combined, their weight made a crater of lunar dimensions in the mattress. She could just manage to turn her head and fill her diaphragm under the mass of him. This playing possum was common. Bobby had needs and she satisfied them, often sacrificing her own pleasure for it.

Not that being filled didn't feel good.

Not that she didn't get some illicit zing out of being 'raped' rather than romanced.

Not that the damp press of him and his hot breath on her ear didn't bathe them in oxytocin.

It did. All of the above. _Most of the time_. But this morning she was preoccupied. _**First day back at Major Case,**_ kept ringing in her ears. It was only 5am. The sun wasn't even a dream of a beam on the horizon, their bedroom was as dark as night. But they had a trip to Staten Island to get Jude to Liz's, before a mad dash back to 1PP. This was implementation day, when all of those paper plans became practicalities to work through. These _very unsexy_ considerations had her energies split and her voice impatient.

"Faster, harder." She panted. doing what little she could, rearing back against him. The words "hurry up" even slipped out.

"Romantic." He said moaned reaching low to touch her. Not that it mattered, she wasn't there. She waited for him to tense, then she waited for him to gush. Then on a burst of strength she flipped him off her. And he wisely let go. She got a toe out onto the cool laminate floor. "Sorry, but we practically have a workday to get through before the workday starts."

It felt kind of horrible actually, padding around naked in the dark January gloom. It was awful to imagine not seeing her house, _her bed_ again until God knew when. But the feeling was also familiar. Alex knew it was always like this before the warm lapping embrace of a case. Before they were both engulfed in the mess of murderous intricacies and intrigues. Once the case took them in, they were both suspended in warmth. Babes in utero, deaf, blind and dumb to anything but the impulses from mother (or the mothership). Only then did the rules, protocol, processes, witnesses, suspects, theories work into their genetic code.

She slid her arms into her terrycloth robe and soon she was in the nursery pressing Jude to her bosom. Waking him with the sweet aroma of expelled milk, rubbing herself to the bow of his small pink lips. This was a new - not unwelcome - addition to the morning routine. Alex tried to imagine doing this (in it's shifting incarnations - breast to pablum to pureed banana to fruit loops) everyday, forever. She imagined incorporating this little boy into every breath for a lifetime.

_It was so odd._

Odd not to not have a laser focus on the day ahead. Not to be envisioning her desk, and the bullpen and the squad room pep rally (every Monday at 8:25 sharp Deakins gave a rousing speech to set the tone for the week). Instead she felt her mind meandering around the room, thinking about laundry and onsies and the diminishing stack of baby wipes. Instead she was savouring the weight of her baby and swaying gently and humming an absent tune.

"25 minutes." Bobby stuck his head in briefly a deadline on his lips. Alex jumped and shot a resentful look at the door jamb.

As they dressed, Alex realized they _had_ factored this part, they had pre-selected outfits. They had planned that Bobby would dress Jude as she showered. They had factored caffeine, the coffee maker was already brewing - enough to fill two big thermal mugs for their journey. But they hadn't factored the time to pack the bag with expressed milk and sterile bottles. They hadn't factored the soiled diaper Jude contributed just as they were out the front door. They especially hadn't considered the amount of baby gear they would be lugging.

"I think we should drive." He said, holding a folded stroller and a bouncy chair and a Winnie the Pooh satchel strapped messenger style across his chest. It held everything Jude would need for the next 14 hours - optimistically. They'd intended to jump on transit as they always did. But nothing was the same.

"Yeah. We should have considered all this _stuff_." She was scratching her hairline. She was stressed. Not just by these little hiccups, Alex was feeling the tug of motherhood. The tearing of her heart (all blood and meat and stringy sinew) right there on the sidewalk. It was a real horrible burning. _**All day.**_ She was turning him over to a stranger all day. He was so small. _**Oh no. I can't do th...**_

"It's a one time thing." Bobby rallied with solutions, as men often did. He was painfully unaware that right now Alex was as far from rational as a person could get. She felt like running back upstairs and barricading the apartment door. She felt like whipping out her phone and texting Deakins her resignation. "We'll leave the chair at Liz's. We'll buy another. We'll have less stuff tomorrow." He was talking fast, afraid that all of the old feelings, of betrayal, of distress, would come back if this fell apart.

"Okay, okay," She frowned looking at her watch. They wouldn't make it, not before 8. "I think I should go alone. You go in early and save face with Deakins."

"But I wanted to…" He stopped. Separation anxiety wasn't exclusive to mothers. That much was plain in the crease of his brow.

"To what? Go? Say goodbye? Yeah I know." She wanted to be kinder, but she was angry. Angry at having to leave her son, at the pressure, at the clock tick tick ticking, at the fact that Deakins didn't know a fucking thing and wouldn't care about her excuses. "This is how it's going to be." _**Get over it**_. She didn't say that, but she might as well have.

"Okay uh… Okay. You go alone and leave the car there." He said improvising.

"Good thinking." Rush hour traffic on the BQE would be a nightmare. Better to keep the car on the island with the nanny, and hop the ferry back. They exchanged quick kisses standing on the curb, their hot breath forming clouds of white smoke in the cold pre-dawn air. And before Bobby could conceptualize his abandonment, his family were two tail lights racing off into the distance.

Alex checked her mirrors, she watched his big dark form recede with a strange lump in her throat. She fumbled for her purse. Her fingers soon found what they sought. She popped the red top on a Tylenol bottle, then she washed 2 down on a gulp of scalding hot coffee.

She felt a headache coming on.

* * *

8:39. Not bad. She slipped into the back of the room as Deakins wrapped up. She could see his silver head between the lumpy bodies of New York's finest. Her fellow detectives formed concentric rings around him. Alex took a deep quiet sniff. Donuts and coffee and paper, along with the vague aroma of epoxy (the ubiquitous office kind). Her shoulders released because it smelled like home. She tuned into the Captain's words,

"Dalvos and Greenway, my office after this. Everybody else your assignments are on the board. And I don't want any feedback. You get what you get, and you don't get upset." Those words of wisdom had come from his daughter's Kindergarten teacher, and they were as comfortable a fit on these grown men as they were on the Play-Doh set. He slapped a file against his knee. "That's all. Have a productive week people." He seemed to give the word productive several extra syllables. As they all began to disperse Deakins called their eyes back, booming "Look who's decided to join us. Nice to have you back Eames."

Alex sagged a little against the frame. No dressing down. That was a good start. Maybe he really had missed her. As she made her way to her desk, she decided it was weird to be welcomed after having a kid. It felt like a puberty party, _**you're a woman now. **_It felt like they were celebrating her feminine parts. There were but 3 pairs of sympathetic female eyes in 70 that watched her. She imagined the guys nudging each other and whispering, "Eames really is a girl."

This was a carefully considered comeback for Alex. In order to keep the topic of her vagina off the table, in order to camouflage the _**'i'm a mom!'**_ banner she felt swinging from a stake lodged in her forehead, she'd trimmed her hair and worn an extra dowdy getup, (a minimizing maternity bra, warm knit turtleneck and a wool coat, which was a shade-too-large, the nubbly cuffs brushing her palms). She felt completely cloaked and happily androgynous. And still a part of her felt exposed. It was her own awareness, her uncertainty about how to balance her new maternal mission with her old workaholic one. It was the burden of all her secrets.

And something else.

The freakiest thing of all.

Her partner.

Now her lover.

Now the father of her child.

Now her _would-be fiance!_ was there staring hard.

_**Alex, you're not in Kansas anymore. **_

Bobby was tucked into his desk. He had a million questions in his eyes. Instead he got out a generic, "Welcome back."

"Thanks." She replied, wondering if all this hullabaloo would affect their productivity. Would the partnership be ruined by the lies? Only time would tell.

He tossed a file at her. "Here's the brief. We got one."

"Good. Let's go." She loved this, loved that her butt hadn't even touched down and they were out the door. Less time to think. Less time to long for Jude.

* * *

They made straight for the morgue and he peppered her with questions.

"Did he settle in?" And "How did you get back to the ferry?" And "Was Adeline as nice as we remembered?" And. "She remembers we don't have a quitting time, right? She remembers what to do?"

And her answers were "Yes." and "Bill was working from home but I'll bus it next time." and "Yes." and "Yes. After 6 he goes to Liz or Jack." Respectively. Then Alex added "I think she was really grateful for the car, she can line the kids up in the backseat and get out of the house. I may just give her the car everyday."

And Bobby released a 60 pound sack of breath he hadn't even know he was carrying. Alex was flowing with it. She was making it work.

He was still thinking of his son as they stared into sallow cheeks and puckered eyeballs of the disinterred James Whitney. Rodgers poked and prodded and spoke in that matter-of-fact monotone that lulled Alex with it's familiarity. And that was followed by a trip across Long Island to the very large, _very white_ Hamptons home, of Joshua and Jessamine Merritt, the niece and nephew of their alleged victim. His only remaining blood relatives.

Alex shouldn't have worried, about her and Bobby. The rhythm was still there. Greatfully. At least it was when they stayed present. Currently they stood alone in a glowing, pristine morning room waiting for the brother and sister to return. The place was an ode to monochromatic design. White chaise, white rug, white walls, white moulding, white toss cushions (with a few threads of wild and crazy grey running through them). "It feels like we're standing a blizzard." Alex murmured out of the corner of her mouth.

"I guess that makes them the icles." Bobby gestured with his head toward the hole their hosts would come through.

"This is what it's like when you walk into the light." Alex whispered sardonically, "Don't take me yet, there's so much more I want to do."

He whirled and hid smirk in a pot of ivory orchids.

Suddenly she broke the flow of the bit. "We have a minute, let me call the nanny."

"Now?" He was pretty sure that a private call was the most inappropriate thing in the world right now.

"Yes now."

"When we're in the car." He said glaring, for a moment he didn't know her. She was like a zombie but instead of brains only Jude would sustain her. Bobby felt an irrational tinge of jealousy. It was soon moot, as the Merritt's entered. And even more irritating that the relatives had very little to offer,

"Uncle was losing his faculties the last couple of months. We didn't get in to see him more then once." Joshua Merritt said.

"Auntie wasn't home. Only the nurse. The care seemed adequate."Jessamine Merritt added.

That was the gist of their contribution, no matter how much probing they did. Eventually one pair in tennis whites (perfectly matching the decor) stared at the other pair (in black overcoats). A battle of the eyes ensued, until the detectives were vanquished.

"Don't you love driving an hour and forty five minutes for a 10 minute interview." Alex commented climbing back into the SUV.

"Don't tell me you forgot how it is."

"No." Truth was, she'd had vivid driving dreams while she was on her leave. In them, an altered (slightly wonky) world flew at her through the windshield. In those dreams she could feel the bump of the road. She could even sense Bobby's presence close by. She'd loved those dreams. Alex had missed driving almost as much as she had missed her partner. "Whaddya think? Overall?"

"About the niece and nephew?" He smiled, "New money."

She nodded. That was certain. Nothing said nouveau riche like cultivated eccentricities, they'd seen it a thousand of times. "And useless." She muttered.

"We know there was a nurse." He searched for a brightside. Hired help was always the perfect to blend of malice, envy and raconteur.

"I suppose."

After a good stretch he turned and asked, "Have you thought about it any more?"

"Of course."

She didn't need to ask what. His proposal. Alex was sitting on her answer. Had been for 14 days now. She wasn't thinking so much about the _yes or no_ of it. Yes or no was the easy part. She was stuck on the _how_ of it. And he hadn't pushed because pushing would have destroyed their beautiful Christmas together. Bobby didn't take her cautious attitude personally. That wasn't completely true, part of him did wish she'd screamed "Yes!" and started buying bridal magazines. But this was Eames. She wasn't common. It had taken this woman over two years just to _consider_ giving their relationship a chance. She wasn't the impulsive kind.

"I can't wear the ring regardless." She stated the obvious.

"I know you can't."

"I don't know…"

"Come on Alex, it's the next logical step."

"What words of love." She mocked.

"I thought you'd appreciate pragmatism." He looked out the window.

"Don't pin this all on me. This is crazy Bobby. Married with a kid right under their noses." She couldn't stop an incredulous laugh, "Besides I don't see you bringing us all home to mom."

She had him there. It felt like there was a force field around Carmel Ridge. What was it? Was he afraid of his mother? _**Check.**_ Did he want to keep his family out of her demented sights a little while longer? _**Check. **_Was he worried that his old lady might start cheeking her meds, then dial up 1PP with the tabloid exclusive that her son was boinking his partner? _**Check. **_Or maybe it was that Francis was _real_, really real, 43 years of sordid stories real. No filter real. _**Check. **_Was it a wonder that her was holding on tight to Alex and Jude?

"My mom is… My mom is difficult."

"Giving you an answer is difficult." She had him right where she wanted him.

"Touche."

"So we agree, we both need time."

He nodded.

Bobby was only truly certain of one thing: Romance was dead.

* * *

They spent the rest of the afternoon at a game of soccer (where they were the ball) getting kicked expertly between the Whitney legal team. It didn't help that Alex kept disappearing.

"I'm just going to make call." She excused herself from the room. In the past she'd sometimes done that as a ruse, to let him have his way with a reluctant suspect or an unbreakable official. This time he knew there was no ulterior motive, Alex had been calling the nanny every hour on the hour.

"Uh, Okay." He looked from her to the lawyer and back again. He needed her. He needed her and she was abandoning him without a second's thought. _**So this was what it feels like to be chum. **_He was being thrown by the fistful right at a barracuda so she could get away. His lover had a new love.

"Two minutes." Alex promised closing the heavy oak door, her fingers already dialling. Bobby turned and smiled at the man. He got thin-lipped glare for his efforts.

Eventually Alex did return. She pulled a leather chair up to the solid hemlock boardroom table, only this time the room was empty, everyone had left him there twiddling his thumbs.

"We're wasting our time here." Bobby's statement was tinged with annoyance.

"End run?"

"To shake her up?"

Alex nodded. "They won't bring her in and we need to talk to her…"

"Okay," He squinted suspiciously, Alexandra Eames knew how to soothe him. She was giving him the gift of mayhem. And Robert Goren realized he was happy to be bought by her. "I don't know why we're doing the kid gloves thing anyway. Let's just go over there."

"We're doing it this way because Marion Whitney has pull and she's hosting that event tonight." She reminded him, even though she was pretty sure he had every piece of minutia - from the moment the doctor had slapped his infant bum - in that storehouse of a head. But just to be clear, just so everyone understood the stakes, it bore mentioning aloud. Alex had seen on many occasions that there were no boundaries, no consequences inside Bobby's head, only ends. He didn't disappoint her deduction. As if breaking the rules were foreplay, he gave her a most un-Goren look. One perhaps better suited to their bed at 2am then a solicitor's office on the upper west side.

"When do we follow the rules?"

And she fell in like she always did.

_**He's right.** _Alex knew what was missing. It was an irate phone call from Deakins asking '_just what the fuck they thought they were doing.' _Until that call came she wasn't truly back.

"Never."

* * *

At 8pm they crashed "New York Gives a Damn" an exclusive soiree at the Whitney manse. It took a certain amount of audacity to fly in the face of the rules, and to do it in front of some of the most prominent names in the city. He remembered Bishop in a fleeting, red-headed recollection. He remembered how mortified she'd been when he upset the apple cart. He remembered her embarrassment.

"You ready for this?" He asked his partner for the second time that day.

"Are you kidding me? Let's get in there." Alex crowed and jumped out of the car in full metaphorical armour, a warrior through and through. Bobby sat there for a moment staring at the door she'd slammed. She never blinked. She was awesome. He thought again how much he wanted to keep her. Forever.

Then she was eagerly pulling his door open.

"Are _you_ ready for this?" Her lips twisted. She took his frozen body for apprehensive not pensive.

"You're a beautiful pitbull." He said and caught her totally off guard.

"I'm a pitbull?"

"Tenacious, strong, intense." He wanted (for the first time _ever_) to kiss her on the job. Just to lean in and kiss her sweet face off. "And beautiful, did you hear that too?"

"Yeah I heard it, you weirdo. Let's go." But first she reached up for a moment and cupped his cheek in the softest most loving way.

The energy was intoxicating when they did the wrong thing together. Ringing the doorbell was like the zip of electro-shock therapy. Pulling their badges in tandem, made their heads buzz. Pushing past the maid and the lawyer felt like the moment the monster Frankenstein came to life. And peacocking past curious party-goers on the way to the library was like a lightening strike.

Then they got to play with Marion Whitney and that was the definition of power.

"We can come back tomorrow." Bobby offered their suspect.

"Oh that would be so much better." Mrs. Whitney looked relieved.

"Yeah but since we're here." He snatched the liferaft back. Alex saw it. He was having fun. He puttered and dwaddled and toyed. It gave Alex permission to be as straight and severe as her no-nonsense heart desired. A match made in heaven.

"That's a Marty Chapman. My mom and I used to watch him every Sunday night."

"If you behave you can come and listen to his monologue." The dowager cooed.

"W-w-we'd like that." He fell under her spell, then said, "The oxygen it came through a tube into his nose from a tank?" _BAM. _He yanked out the rug and left her flat on her ass. Alex watched eyes glowing gripping the rail of a Chippendale chair. He was artful. He walked the line while appearing to bumble about. She had missed this. She wondered if they could still tag team.

He was mild. "You haven't asked what kind of poison killed your husband. I mean. It's just what people usually ask. You're just distracted by the party."

She was harsh. "An organo-phosphate toxin... _The poison._"

_**Yep they still had it.**_

"You must love dancing" Bobby complimented. "I mean, you're just so light on your feet."

"I'm a student of the dance." And that was when they saw it. She was the one. No proof yet, but they_ knew it_ and they communicated that knowledge with their eyes. And Marion Whitney? Her feet were frisky and her face was upturned and she was in a delirious place. A place two earth-bound city cops just couldn't follow. They watched the widow's punch drunk hiney sway out of the room.

"The dance of merry widow." Alex skewered.

He caught her gaze, and peaked a brow and did his own happy dance, all fists and twirling and Alex knew why, joy. Unbridled joy. Irrepressible joy. They were together again. In _every _way possible.

In short order they were escorted out through the side entrance like a dirty little secret. They cut across the lawn, and walked around the large circular driveway and headed toward the imposing wrought iron gate. He kept looking down at her. He snagged her index finger with his pinky, sure no one could see it in the moonlight. The night was a perfect sort, a dry, crisp, cold. And their feet crunched on fresh fallen snow.

Riding a high, he tried again. "Marry me Alex."

"I want a long engagement." She shot back.

He barked with laughter. "That's a yes."

"Yes."

It had to be yes.

* * *

10pm. They didn't make it to Staten Island until _10pm_. This was a long day, even by NYPD standards. Anxiety worked through her hand, as Alex tapped on the front door. Suddenly this felt like too much to ask, even of family. But then Bobby shifted from side to side behind her and she remembered that she wasn't alone. _**Wherever I go, so too does he. **_She thought rather poetically.

Liz looked beat. "He's been crying." She said without preamble. "I've tried everything. He just can't settle."

"We're sorry." Bobby offered stepping into the foyer.

Her look said '_**Save it.'**_

But Alex didn't see anything, not the disapproval, not Bobby's uncomfortable two step, not the living room strewn with baby paraphernalia, none of it. She locked on that tiny writhing boy in the bassinette. She shed her coat and her lifted her shirt and brought him in against her bare flesh. Then buried her nose in crook of his small neck. Every inch going weak with relief and love. She dropped onto the couch, and unhooked, and adjusted, and thrust herself into the baby's mouth, their eyes locked like dumbstruck lovers.

"Oh, I just needed one of those." She heard Liz snark. But the younger's tone had softened because there was a miracle in every feeding between mother and child. Even the most jaded worn soldier could see that. And maybe something in Liz shifted a little, watching her tough, stoic sister find her heart in this infant. Only time would tell.

15 minutes later Alex came out of her Jude haze.

"Where is everyone?" She whispered.

"In bed. I told her we'd lock up." The detectives were thigh to thigh. Bobby's arm across the back of the sofa and balanced on her nimble shoulder. His form and his whole intention angled toward the two loves of his life. Alex nestled into his armpit and gave him all of their weight. She yawned wide and long.

"How in the hell are we gonna do this everyday Bobby?"


	31. Chapter 31

_**Hello again. A very long absence calls for a very long chapter. Embrace the weird.**_

* * *

**PAS DE DEUX**

_**Entree**_

With great difficulty as it turned out.

That's how they did it.

And yet their struggle wasn't much more than that of parents the world over. The grand plan (the one laid out over _that_ infamous meal at Il Fornello. The one that had led to the grand rift, and shortly after the grand reconciliation) was not without wiggle room. Take the mornings for instance, a trip to Staten Island was a nice idea but a logistical nightmare. So it had been successfully offloaded. Now all they had was a quick trip to Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Now they left Jude in the cosy, lively, living room of Jack and Julia. Murmuring reverent goodbyes, their moist lips against his soft temple, and the ambient chatter of Disney Jr. and clank of breakfast spoons on porcelain bowls. It felt comfortable.

And that simple tweak equated to two and a half hours saved. And now there was only the glorious 'problem' of showing up at 1PP together and on time. A 'problem' because waltzing in side by side everyday was hinky. It fairly yelled "_Hello! We slept and travelled together!"_ Alex was more then happy to to take one for the team, sending him ahead. While she holed up at 'The Steaming Carafe' (a cafe 3 blocks from headquarters) and slowly sipped cup number 4, while holding thick pages of newsprint. And while it started off as a diversion. It ended up being the happiest kind of accident. She got to compose herself mentally and emotionally before throwing into the day. Soon she didn't know how she'd coped without her little morning respite.

And so, days fell to months, and when they pulled their heads up, they simultaneously realized that _they were doing this!_ And they were doing it well. And Jude (their human calendar) had gone from a life measured in weeks, to one measured in months.

4 months to be exact.

* * *

_**Adagio**_

They walked up East 47th on the way to (what they'd been told was) a bank robbery gone bad. With his scarf and toque in place, and his nose running just a little from a brutal nor'easter that bounced off the glass towers, Bobby looked down at Alex. He slowed a to a lope and she did too, in perfect time. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, and dared to broach a topic that had been eating at him. Their co-habitation. The lifestyle they'd been living, but not acknowledging (as was their way).

"We should move in together." He said suddenly.

"We have."

"You know what I mean."

"No I don't, not exactly." She skirted, around a pair of yuppies, an agile de côté to the left.

So he got more specific. "We should consolidate. Our salaries, our rents, our expenses, child care." He felt, quite oddly, as though the way to his lover's heart was through practicality. Part of him wanted to give her poetry. He wanted to get goofy and lay his heart at her feet on the sidewalk. He wanted to snatch her up, on a busy corner, and spin and spin and spin until they were sick, and dizzy, and a bizarre spectacle captured real-time by hundreds of cell phones.

But her countenance stopped whimsy dead. Everytime he brought up _them,_ there was a barely perceptible tightening of her shoulders. Bobby wanted a lot, but most of all he wanted to _win_ her. _**She agreed to marry you,**_ a brave little voice reminded. But there was an unreality to that: no planning, no ring (at least not one visible to the human eye). It was tucked 'safely' in her underwear drawer. In addition, she'd wrapped the velvet box in a white handkerchief. There were so many layers of sediment between his ring and the third finger of her left hand. And then there were the work days - hard and gruelling - they bled into each other exactly the way they always had. Nothing had changed. It seemed to Bobby that her 'yes' was a whisper floating out there somewhere, lost in a cloud of thought-forms, some fulfilled, others forgotten.

A niggle of worry worked at him.

Eventually it grew into a hand of worry that shoved him.

_**Get her to commit. **_

He stumbled at the thought, but he pulled up from it like a seasoned ballerino. Alex was a complex animal. He had to give her things in a way she could swallow. "We could have twice as much disposable income." He went on like a banker. "More free time. One of us would always be able to take the baby, so that the other could get a breather."

"Who's apartment would we move into?"

"Well. Mine is better located. But yours is nicer." His balance was worthy of a diplomat, because honestly Bobby didn't care where they lived. Or about any of the things he'd asserted. The endgame for him was marriage. And this was just another step on the road to making Alex his wife.

"Hmmmm." The sound was light and coy and feminine as she considered it.

"That sounds promising." He nudged her with his arm. She laughed like music.

Strangely, Bobby didn't even spare a second's contemplation for the man he'd become. A man more obsessed with matrimony then a buxom young gold digger in a retirement home. A man who had sworn (_**what? 14 months ago?)**_ that he would never be anyone's husband. Ahhh, now he saw it. A universal truth. The wrong _someones_ were always repellant, and the right _someone_ a sweet addiction. They kept walking. Bobbing along in total unison, to the tempo of the city. Time had matched their strides, overcoming the mismatched lengths of their legs.

Alex quietly considered the case her partner made. His apartment was only 10 minutes from her brother. _10 minutes_. Dropping Jude off there every morning would barely impact them at all. But on the other hand, he rented, and she owned. Not a huge deterrent. Prices had gone up, she would come out ahead if she sold. But on the other hand, she hadn't even had her place for a year yet. It was sad to think of surrendering it, along with all the plans she'd made for the nursery and the decor… _**pro, con, pro, con.**_

With his gaze fixed upon her vacillating face, Bobby had little idea of how well he really knew her. The details of living consumed Alex - things like scheduling, and timing, and cost, and control. For her, the grand sweeping arc of desire and starry-eyed longing, was but a footnote to reality. Not because she didn't love him, not at all, if Bobby could see the love, he might have run for the depth and rawness of it. This little game she played, this tallying of _stuff_, was her way of blocking total surrender. There was a lot of repressed fear in this small woman.

"Is this about the shirt thing?" She asked, a bit slyly after half a block.

"No this isn't about the shirt thing." He rolled his eyes. He wanted to plan their future, and she dug her nails into the mundane. Shirtgate. They'd had a wardrobe malfunction a few weeks ago. It had culminated with him riding the G line, one freezing cold Wednesday morning, headed _away_ from 1PP and back to his apartment, furious and shirtless. His puckered nipples rubbed raw by his wool overcoat. And all because his last pinstriped button-down was sitting in a pile of dirty laundry, covered in red wine, and there hadn't been a replacement on the few hangers she spared him. "I've solved the shirt situation. This is about _our family_." It felt like a cheap shot. A sentimental ploy to get her to react. But it was true, wasn't it? They_ were_ a family, weren't they?

At that moment their their crime scene came into view. A pile of cop cars, bunch of ambulances and red wall of firetrucks all clogging up the street.

"What the hell? Did they send all of them?" Alex gestured.

"Someone said bomb."

"There's a magic word if you want some attention in this city." She murmured, taking her badge out of her pocket and hanging it around her neck.

"So you'll consider it? Living together?" Bobby circled back, putting his big body between them and the mission. His legs and feet in second position, his arms aching to join them _around her._

"Sure I will. It's a _really_ good idea." She looked up and held his eyes. Long enough to lock in. Long enough for a mindscan. Long enough to forget the world and finger one of his tortoiseshell buttons.

Then she broke away to greet the lead detective.

* * *

They dropped to their haunches in choreographed obsession. This scene was funny. It was a wind tunnel for one, whipping their hair about and teasing it like tumbleweed. It was loud for another, the double whoop of sirens careening off of the towers. It was crowded for a third, every nosy nelly in New York nipping over for a gander - angling awkwardly over police tape, then getting the old heave ho, "Keep movin'! Keep movin'! Nothin' to see people!"

And yet together Bobby and Alex held the vibration steady. _Focus._ It was an intangible gift. They projected professionalism and serenity all over those within radius. And there was another anomaly, Alex got nice and close to the body. She usually left that ghoulish bit to him. But today their heads were magnets, tenting them over the corpse.

Patrolman Savoy filled in the blanks. "He shows the device. He goes 'don't shoot they wired me', then he blows."

"Anyone else hurt?" Goren patted and probed the body. Willing it to give up it's secrets.

"No and we were close."

"No keys no wallet, no phone. You guys track him from the bank?" Eames asked.

"We were on regular patrol when we got the call. Saw him hop down those stairs."

Bobby looked up, "He hopped down?" Not standard getaway behaviour.

"Right then he headed over here?" The newbie cop continued.

"Anybody in the coffee shop know 'em?" Eames asked gesturing behind her.

"Not that they remember. Here's his note." Carmichael handed her an evidence bag.

She read, "There's a bomb, put the money in the bag, no dye packets."

"It fits a coercion scenario."

"And the MO of three other bank jobs in the last six weeks. Male perp claiming someone wired him with a bomb."

She watched Bobby channel the evidence, that was how it felt to Alex sometimes, like vic was whispering in his ear. "Looks like this one had a day job. Shoes are creased, his pant knees are shiney from kneeling, his forearms..."

"Looks like old burn scars."

"His fingers, stained with ink. Maybe a copy repair man." Bobby brought the fingers to his nose. "Citrus, some kind of solvent. He was probably on the job this morning."

"So where's his repair case?"

* * *

They poked around inside Devon &amp; Blakely, a cavernous cafe adjacent their DB. The eatery had all the right conditions. They could imagine their average, anonymous, criminal to sliding under the radar of a busy barista. And of course there was publicly accessible room with a closing door.

"Bathroom key please."

Once inside he flipped the lock and turned. "Wanna make out?" Bombs and bodies taking a backseat.

"You're ridiculous you know that." She laughed.

"Live a little."

"The last time you said that I got pregnant." She snarked, opening the toilet tank and peering inside.

"And look at how well that worked out."

Alex snorted, "I hate to see what you call a catastrophe." She thought of sweet Jude and her fingers itched to dial the nanny. Instead she busied her body by looking for their evidence, giving a pile of washroom supplies an absent kick.

"I love kissing you when you're all Eamesy." Suddenly he was closer than the laws of physics should allow. He shuffled her back. He gripped her waist.

"Watch it. Next you'll be grabbing me in front of Deakins."

"The days are too long."

"Okay. One kiss. Make it quick." Alex couldn't resist him like this. She released her head, closed her eyes, and thrust her chin upward.

"Don't rush a masterpiece."

She snorted again and he gobbled up.

"Mmmm cold." Her lips and nose were pink and frosty. "You taste like crime scene."

"Thanks." Her fingers crept up around his neck, then she realized that were coated in latex and let them drop. She stood there with limp babydoll arms as he kissed her face off. "We should do some work." Her voice was husky. His itched for more, instead he groaned and pushed away. Alex watched the metamorphosis. His pupils contracted, the passion cleared and his jaw set. Case face. He knew where the victim's repair bag was. He'd known after just a cursory glance around the room. He moved straight to the garbage can and lifted the lid. Without a word she joined him. Stage lights dimmed and a spotlight pinned them. They stared at a brown leather briefcase tucked under the folds of the bin liner.

Alex felt her mind go on a trip, her pulse spiking. _**Bombs. Bombs and now a briefcase. Bombs and briefcases. Oh God! Bombs inside briefcases. **_"I'll get the bomb squad." She rushed out, turning to run, the orchestra hitting crescendo.

He reached down and snapped off the tag. "There's an ID tag on the handle."

Alex pirouetted back, slapping his arm. Half expecting to explode. Half knowing his instincts were impeccable.

"B &amp; C copper systems. Ernie Dominguez " He showed her, oblivious to the rise of her shoulders, the catch of her breath, the seizing of the bridge of her nose, and her unique pheromonal signature of terror and exasperation. He could have killed them. _Just like that_. Curtains. She'd forgotten about this guy. The one who didn't give a shit inside the pursuit. The one that liked to poke, and prod, and press, and then smile as the house burned down. She'd forgotten what it was like to play second fiddle to the case.

"It's good to be back." Alex heaved.

* * *

_**Variation for the danseuse - Alex**_

She had a free night. One she was reluctant to take. The light at home was soft, her son was adorable, the apartment smelled of the lasagna they'd made for dinner and it was 25 degrees outside. But Bobby was practically shoving her out the door. He was playing Mr. Mom, a burp cloth draped over his shoulder, an alert little boy in his arms, and her detailed instructions tucked into his cranium. "Go. We'll be fine." He urged, "Have a coffee, or better yet a beer, you've had enough coffee."

Yep, he knew that about her.

He knew a few other things too, the secrets of the single woman. He knew about her menstrual cycle. The shedding of her uterine lining was a talking point for Goren. He'd seen her nipple stretching inside a gentrified milking machine. He'd felt the bristle of her unshaven legs and the other night he'd watched her clip her toenails...

_"What!?" She stopped mid-clip, challenging his face. She refused to change how she behaved in her own bedroom. _

_"I don't like the clicking. It's like nails on a chalkboard." And he kept staring (with what Alex perceived as disdain)._

_"Deal with it." She said, taking a stand with a clip. And 10 minutes later h__e'd had no problem putting her pedicured toe in his mouth and sucking 'til she was halfway to orgasm._

Laundry habits, eating habits, _bathroom_ habits.

He knew everything.

Tonight, with her reluctant freedom, Alex was doing what she did best, investigating. The subject was marriage. The snitch was Barnes and Noble. She didn't have amnesia. She'd _been_ married. She didn't need wedding ceremony books. She didn't need to know how the average wedded day would go. She needed to know how to do it better. Because they _were_ doing this thing. She played hardball, but Robert Goren had her, he had every ounce of her, for as long as he wanted. The second she acknowledged that, she felt liberated. And that liberation was followed quickly by toxic levels of worry. _**Another marriage. ****Forever, take two.**_ She worried that their level of intimacy was completely unsustainable.

_**Joe**_.

What she remembered most was the absence of Joe. He'd been two years ahead of her, a new recruit trying to prove himself, while she applied to the academy. He'd been ambitious and she had been lonely. She'd cried more easily back then, especially in their empty marriage bed. Youthful tears, a hurricane on her cheeks, like the world was ending. And she'd done it without any self-recrimination. No snarky '_**get a grip'**_ or hiding puffy eyes. Because she'd been a different woman. Alex had been younger and softer. She hadn't learned all those lessons on the streets yet. She hadn't gotten any of the scars. What she'd had in spades was feminine support. The sympathetic ear of her mother and bar quiz nights with her girlfriends.

That Alex, had been a young 25. She had gone into marriage with romantic expectations. And soon found them unfulfilled. It wasn't Joe. He'd been good to her. It was her. She had been forever trying to find her place in the world through him. Through his love, his affection, his moods, his attention. The clingier she'd been, the more shifts he'd added. The worst had been the night, when he was working graveyard, and she lay alone. In the dark there had been no buffer between herself and her mind.

She'd cried about the distance between them, cried about the secrets, cried with loneliness because there were no children, and cried because, 1 year in there were a lot fewer friends. She'd cried because sometimes it had been as though they were living in the same house only different dimensions. Separated by a thin membrane that rendered one or the other of them constantly invisible. She'd see signs that he'd been there, a depression in the sofa cushion, a coffee mug on the counter, the warm mist of a recent shower and soiled underwear on the bathroom floor. But he was gone. Always gone.

She had loved Joe deeply. She'd cursed Joe occasionally. She'd threatened to leave him often. But once she'd gotten her own badge, things had steadied. She gained valuable insight. About space, and independence, and inner strength. And it had strengthened them. She quickly learned that their history could only be a foundation. They needed to grow together. She gained a new appreciation for his work (which was her work now too). A cop needed to be with a cop. Who else would get the demands, the gore, the loyalty, the brotherhood? Alex had resigned herself to Joe in some ways. But didn't everyone with a successful marriage stop dreaming about alternate realities, and go all in with the one they had? Joseph Dutton hadn't been her perfect match, but he'd been damn well better than most.

Presently, Alex wasn't willing to admit there was intelligent design. But this widow's universe was very funny place. Someone was definitely keeping score. Alex found that her _now_ was intricately tailored to the yearnings of that lonely newlywed girl. Another cop? Check. The same schedule? Check. No secrets? Check. (at least none that mattered). Chart busting levels of intimacy? Check. Amazing sex? Check. No loneliness? Check. Domesticated bliss? Check. And most shocking of them all - the check to end all checks - a baby, a sweet warm, genetic blend of him and her. A little boy that Alex loved to distraction. She could never have imagined it could be this good.

Was it too much happiness?

Were they too close?

Would they suffocate one another?

She hooked her finger over the spine of a book. '_Getting it right. A guide to marriage the second time around.'_ By Stacey Blenheim.

This was a start.

* * *

"Alex? Alex Dutton?"

She jumped sloshing her latte, and skipping her scone. Nobody called her that. It wasn't even a thing. There wasn't a legal document in the world with that name on it.

"Cynthia?" Alex looked up into a vaguely familiar set of eyes. She felt her shoulder blades slide down her back, her posture suddenly perfect. _**Cynthia Knopfler? What the fuck? **_What were the chances that this woman who she'd last seen, what? 10 years ago? Would be inside Starbucks at a Barnes and Noble in Forest Hills.

Alex gaped.

"It's Cynthia. Cynthia Knopfler." The woman smiled, shaking her auburn bob with enthusiasm. "Meyers now."

Alex felt like she had conjured her. A spell cast by turning those self-help pages. She had _actualized a human being_ by licking her index finger, and unsticking the sticky bits of advice. Alex knew exactly when she'd manifested Cynthia. During the chapter called 'Speak Now Or…'

**_Unsure about whether to buy the book at $34.99. Alex had panned around and found a shiny bum worn banker's chair, strategically tucked into the stacks. Then she'd done as the author suggested and she'd imagined her wedding to Joe. She'd imagined the handcrafted patchwork hearts that her mother had made and strung like bunting over the altar. She imagined her father's tux with the huge lapels. She imagined the 169 origami flowers (that she and Liz and Sylvia had spent the night creasing and folding), and she imagined the small non-denominational chapel. Then she remembered the reception, baby back ribs on the picnic tables behind the ceremony site. The grass had been rampant with weeds and dandelions and dogwood and to Alex's 24 year old eyes the whole day had been a fairytale._**

**_Alex had also remembered, there with her feet planted on green commercial bookstore carpet, the guests. Her mom and dad (of course) but also Louise and Dale (Joe's parents) and Susan, Joe's stepmom. And his two brothers, her brother and sister. And six pairs of aunts and uncles. She'd drawn, out of her memory, even more guests, her BFF from college Jacquelyn and Sylvia, and Connie and their plus ones. And then Joe's two best friends Jonathan and Derek. Derek's date had been Cynthia Knopfler._**

"Wow. It's been a long time." Alex said hollowly. _**5 lifetimes. **_She felt stiff, awkward. And it dawned just how much she used her authority to smooth social interaction. Without her badge, she felt small. She felt average.

"Twelve years? Or is it thirteen?" Cynthia was animated. Alex watched her slender body tremble on kitten heels, a byproduct of her broad gesticulating.

"Thirteen on the 27th of May." **Thirteen years. **Her married life and her widowhood added together. Good thing she wasn't superstitious. "Sit. Please." Alex gestured across the small bistro table.

"Um." Cynthia looked over her shoulder. "Maybe just a minute. My son is checking out some Star Wars something." She waved vaguely.

"You live nearby then?"

Cynthia nodded emphatically and it put Alex in mind of a bobblehead. "Over on 71st. What about you?"

"I'm just here enjoying the calm." Alex dodged all the important issues.

"Do you have your own pre-teen 'problem' running around somewhere?" Cynthia's laugh was big, booming and ironic.

"No. I have a little guy. 4 months old. Jude." And now Alex understood the gift that was being presented to her. It wasn't enough to live life in a theoretical storm. Lobbing _what ifs_ and _wherefores,_ from herself to herself, inside her head. It was exhausting. Keeping secrets was exhausting. And now here sat Cynthia Knopfler. And she cared enough to ask, but she didn't care an ounce about the NYPD, or rules or fraternization.

"God! I am so out of the loop!" Cynthia exclaimed. "You may have guessed that Derek and I barely lasted the ceremony. And then I left the state to do post-graduate work, and I fell out of touch with everyone. So a baby! Wow."

"That's what we say."

"Joe…"

And Alex couldn't bear it. She sat up, as if a poker had been shoved up her shirt, and dispatched with any misconceptions. "Not Joe." The woman inhaled sharply at her error. And something compelled Alex reach out and cover this near strangers hand with her own. Maybe to translate that she was steady. Maybe to absorb the shock waves. Maybe because of a simple desire for contact. Or maybe just the lure of a brief anonymous liaison. "Joe died. In the line of duty. In 1998."

Cynthia was still. Her free hand slid slowly up her chest, over the shiney baubles at her neck and stopped, lightly fretting with her mouth. "I'm so sorry."

_**She's probably regretting the moment she saw you,**_ came Alex's mini-critic.

"_Don't be._ You were a guest at wedding a lifetime ago. You couldn't have known. And it's been so long that it doesn't sting anymore." And this was where the torrent broke loose, the one that had been pent up for ages. "My life is… my life is the best it's ever been." Alex confided. And her face heated on a rush of blood and emotion. _**Finally!**_ Finally she could tell someone (anyone) how happy she was. Finally she could brag about her blessings. "I'm a detective with the NYPD. I'm engaged. We have a 4 month old and he is the most," Her tongue tied with love. "the most beautiful thing on earth. I finally feel lucky." _**There I said it. I told it like it is. **_She felt light as if a heavy shell had broken away.

Cynthia mirrored her emotion. "I'm so happy for you, and I barely knew you 10 minutes ago." They both laughed. "What's his name? Your fiance?"

_**Her fiance. **_Not her partner. Not her co-worker. Not her friend. _**Her fiance.**_

"Bobby."

* * *

_**Variation for the danseur - Bobby**_

The sun had set early, as it did in the coldest months of the year. It was the kind of evening best spent in front of a fire, or burrowed into a fleece blanket or cradling a hot cup of tea. But it was Bobby's turn to be free, by desire or force. Freedom was nothing to sniff at, even if this case had more opportunity then most. This was upside of hunting a suburban mommy. Even her crimes hardly made a sound. Margie Timmons always went home for dinner. That meant so could they. It also meant more time for Operation: Separate Interests.

He took his coat off the hook, and was shoving an arm in, when Alex couldn't hold her tongue.

"And don't go to see your mother."

"What?" He stilled.

"The second you have any free time you run to her."

Bobby pivoted slowly on a heel. He raised an eyebrow and gave her that look. The one she called 'slapped cheek'.

"I haven't met your mother, but you can bet I profiled that relationship." An inattentive parent, a child desperate for attention. It was classic fear of abandonment all grown up.

"Think you might be overstepping?" He gathered up his keys and wallet shoving them into his pocket with a little too much force.

"No." Alex crossed her legs and her arms and pinned him under her icy stare. She was beyond serious.

"I think you are." _**Telling me about my own goddamn mother.**_

"Of course you do. You've told yourself A lot of lies. And her whole life is a delusion. You're a matching set."

"Watch it." He growl. "Watch what you say about my mother."

Alex paused. Did she really want to take this road? She knew he had to come to this on his own. Nothing would ever change otherwise. But she loved him. And he was being taken advantage of. She would go nuts if she didn't say something. "It's not so much your mother as your response to her."

Frances Goren called constantly and she didn't keep business hours, 1am, 2am, 3am. His mother also expected at least 2 visits a week. His mother also talked to Alex like she was the maid. "Where's Bobby?" She'd crow in a brassy Brooklyn way. The woman had no boundaries. Alex had stood by as he'd soothed Frances, even if his eyes were red rimmed and his voice sounded like ground glass. Alex'd acted mute when Bobby had made his mother a priority after a 2am raid. Once they'd been making out on the couch when mommie dearest had called in hysterics, and Bobby had actually unstuck her hands and untwined her legs and gone to Carmel Ridge.

The level of co-dependence was disturbing to Alex. And it was all coming out in the wash. If they'd still been in the booty call phase he might have hidden this disorder from her. But now, pressed together 24/7, Alex saw this Oedipal relationship in hideous technicolour.

Currently he was staring at her with rage in his eyes. Alex prodded around her solar plexus for the truth. Was this the right conversation? Was she being a bitch? Yes and yes. She felt self-righteous, a little anxious, but most of all she felt indignant. She had forgiven Bobby's mother a lot. Frances had never introduced herself (not in almost 2 years). Frances was appallingly self-centred (Bobby said it was the illness, Alex wasn't so sure). Frances had met Jude of course, under a heavy cloak of lies to keep her quiet. Frances didn't know who the hells baby she'd been meeting. Which Bobby assured Alex was necessary. "When she has an episode she refuses the meds she causes a lot of trouble. For me, for the staff. Once they had to restrain her. It's just too much information to trust her with." And yet from an emotional (and therapeutic) perspective he couldn't keep his child a complete secret. And of course Alex was willing to take it all on Bobby's terms. But it was such fine line they walked, with all these secrets, and half truths that she wondered when they would fall.

Until tonight.

Tonight was a bridge too far.

"I want you to go do something you enjoy. Or hang out with a friend, or just detox. Don't run yourself ragged trying to please her."

"_Her?_" He barked. It was cruelly cavalier, the way she shaped that pronoun. "Don't say another word."

"Either I have a right or I don't. Make up your mind. Take me or leave me."

"Tonight I think I'll leave you." He turned and walked out the front door.

Alex thought then, if she took on his mother, she would lose.

* * *

Bobby stood on the sidewalk and looked up at their (_no her_) apartment window. It was the one with the floral drapes and the golden glow. Then he lit a cigarette, took a deep draw, raised his free hand over his head and gave it the finger.

_**Fuck you!**_

He wanted to scream that epithet for the whole fucking neighbourhood to hear, but who was he kidding, he was too repressed to do that. So he just gazed up as though he'd been thrown out of heaven. And he got down on himself. Everything up there was too pretty for him, he had bad habits, and a destructive temper, and a schizo mom.

_**Fuck! **_

He wasn't even mad at Alex, he was mad at himself for letting her get too close. Of course he'd been going to Carmel Ridge. What else he going to do at 8 o'clock on a week night? And was he supposed to write his mother off? She needed him. He understood her shortcomings. He'd been ignoring them his whole life. _**Dammit Alex.**_ Well he couldn't go to fucking Carmel Ridge now, _could he!_ That would just be too fucking predictable. His mom was going to be so pissed, he'd told her he was coming. The moment the thought occurred he saw it, himself, as a gnarled piece of rope being pulled between two megalomaniacs.

_**Well screw both of them. **_

He dropped the half-finished smoke on the ground, and put it out with his heel. And even that felt manipulated because Alex hated it when he smoked. "Agrhhhh." He screamed like a New York pirate. Then he gave his body a shake. A (kind of violent) head to toe shudder that made people walk on the street to get around him. He didn't know how else to clear the feminine energy that was clawing at him.

He walked 3 blocks to the subway station. His Mustang was in Brooklyn. Which was fine. It was easier to be aimless in the city on public transit. And he was the definition of aimless. He sat on an orange vinyl chair, as the corrugated metal car rocked back and forth, and resolved to just ride the line, all the way to the end. He purposely turned his eyes away from the overhead map. He was pretty sure he knew where he was headed, but he prefered the surprise.

He looked slowly around the blue tinged room. The fluorescent bulbs reeked havoc with true colour, but it was clear enough for his mind to run. There were 4 other people with him. An old woman with deep grooves all over her hands and face, not unlike that map of the subway system that he was ignoring. She was swaddled in layers of material. He pegged most of it for thrift shop sweaters, and the rest as bolts of printed cotton from the fabric store. Her upper lip sagged on missing teeth or an ill-fitting denture. Bobby knew immediately who she was: 75 maybe 80 years old, Romani. Hungarian diaspora. And she wasn't destitute, on the contrary Bobby was certain she was very wealthy.

There was a black man wedged into the corner, he was wearing a snug leather jacket. He had a head full of large shiny loose curls. He looked like an extra from a Grandmaster Flash video. But on closer inspection the large rectangular case he carried was very specific. And his headphones were very expensive, professional grade. Bobby squinted trying to see the callouses, if he could, then he'd know for sure this was a DJ, moreover if he saw his knees or his hem he would know where he lived. Next, the detective cast his eyes over a man who had to be a bail bondsman, and immediately knew he was going through a divorce. Then his gaze slid to a manicurist who had a case of carpal tunnel and mean boyfriend. Bobby wrestled with himself. He tried to mind his own business, but he couldn't shut down this observational curse.

One by one the passengers dispersed. They all had somewhere to be. But he didn't. He sat on, until he was alone. Of course the city never slept, and no one was ever alone, but it felt that way for a while. Chime, then announcement, then door open, then door close, repeat. Only when the door opened and didn't close, did he realize that this was it. The end of the line.

Coney Island.

He'd suspected as much.

It was a strange place to be alone, on a late winter's night. Coney Island was a creepy, frosty, industrial monolith rising out of the sea. It felt like aliens had invaded. The coaster's loops were great big motherships. Bobby wasn't sure he wanted to be by himself, here at the end of the world. He pulled his hat low and his scarf high and he had a sudden, deep, paternal, yearning for his child, who was everything soft and warm and good.

What the fuck was he doing here?

This was bullshit. He should be home. But he hadn't been gone long enough. Only 2 hours. He needed a drink. He walked another five icy blocks and stopped at the first bar with even a hint of energy. A set of flashing marquee style signs. It was a Gentlemen's club, 'The Brass Rail'. _**Figures.**_ It suited the tone of this pathetic night.

Bobby pulled off his outside gear. He pulled up a seat on the lip of the stage, and braced for a faceful of pussy. He ordered a Laphroaig, double, neat. A classier drink than he'd expected find in the likes of this place. He took the tumbler in hand and downed half, feeling hot and alive and clear again.

"Bobby? Bobby Goren?"

_**Oh shit.**_

He swiveled "Dave?" _**Goddamn Dave Quinn **_his former personal trainer from the gym. _**Who is apparently a pervert.**_

"Weird meeting you here." Dave was blond, youngish and a little worn, kind of all-American meets reality.

"Yeah T &amp; A." Bobby said grimly, joking, but only on the inside.

"I don't normally come here."

"Me either." _**Good. Sad explanations out of the way.**_

"I'm married." Dave added as if marriage were chemical castration.

"Well I'm not. I was walking, it was cold out, so I figured why not." The show started, and a woman dressed like a slutty cop began gyrating around on the dias. Sparkly black mini, handcuffs, baton, the letters NYPD emblazoned across her tiny tank top. It was like a sleazy off (_off)_ Broadway mockery of his life. "You here with anyone?" Bobby asked looking around.

"Supposed to be. This is a dry run for my brother-in-law's bachelor party, but I'm the only loser who showed up. You?"

"No. Like I said, this is a crime of opportunity."

"Hey aren't you a cop?" The man seized on a memory.

"Yep."

"I have a bunch of parking tickets..."

"Not that kind of cop." Bobby smiled.

"What kind?"

"Detective. Homicide mostly." And as he said it, he started to grow, he started to feel really masculine, sitting there in the vee of a stripper's thighs, with a drink in hand, and tons of street cred. He looked cool, he _felt _cool, he sounded hard.

"_Holy shit_." To Dave Quinn he was mythic.

"Yeah."

"Whatdaya you drive?"

"A vintage stang. Not tonight though."

"I always wanted a vintage domestic. Wife won't let me get it. Not practical enough for the kids. I drive a minivan."

"I've got a kid. My… my woman is okay with it." Bobby felt a rush. He was channeling DeNiro now.

"It was a miracle I got out tonight. It's a school night."

"Really? My girlfriend practically shoved me out the door."

"She's a fucking keeper." They clinked glasses to his _good luck. _

"Yeah I think so." And Bobby started rethinking the 'shitty' hand life had dealt him.

"You look good. I don't have my calipers but my guess, still…" The trainer looked him up and down "10% body fat?"

"10.8. Good eye. I had a fitness assessment a few weeks ago." Bobby felt like he was being punked. Here was his archangel, sent in the form of Dave - a titty-loving, personal trainer. Clarence... Uh... Dave was going to keep him from jumping off a metaphorical bridge. Through Dave's eyes he could finally see it. His life was a laundry list of blessings. And he was an ungrateful bastard, standing on the outside cursing it. As usual.

"Lucky son of a bitch." Dave murmured.

"Yeah." Bobby agreed.

Dave tucked a 5 in the dancer's g-string. And Bobby swirled the remaining amber liquid in his glass.

It was the same colour as his fiance's' eyes.

* * *

The lights were dim, and the TV was low, and Alex lay on the couch, fast asleep. He stood there for a moment and watched her. Her lips were parted, her cheek sunk into the pillow. Her hand, all but her thumb, wedged tightly between her knees. Then he tiptoed into the nursery and watched the rise and fall of Jude's baby rib cage.

He floated back to Alex. He lowered to his hands and knees in front of her body. He leaned in and tickled her lip with the tip of his tongue, again and again and again until she stirred, and laughed a little, and wrapped her arms around his neck and said "Bobby." And that word, _his name_, was a puff of comfort and satisfaction on his ear. No forethought, it was delivered straight from her subconscious. He could _feel_ the way she loved him. It vibrated his insides.

"Come with me."

"Where?" She might well have said 'anywhere'.

"To bed sleepy." He took her hand and drew her to her feet and she trailed behind him dosey and docile.

In the bed he pulled her close. "You smell like scotch." She wrinkled her nose. "And cigarettes."

"Correct and correct."

"I didn't brush my teeth."

"You'll live." His fingers danced on her spine. Her fingers danced somewhere else, right into his briefs. "Looking for something?"

"Uh huh." And she peeled back the fabric. She slid onto him drowning him in heat and milky curves. She licked his flat nipples. She caressed his biceps. Then she took him inside her, rocking her pale bum just right. "I'll make it good for you." Her fingers slid low between his cheeks massaging until she hit the right spot.

And Bobby lay there beneath her, and closed his eyes and felt that familiar tightening in his balls.

_**Fucking luckiest guy on the planet.**_

* * *

_**Coda**_

Goren twisted and twirled. Moving around interrogation on a wave of supposition and excitement. His centrifugal force plastering everyone to the walls. It ended here. This murderer was toast. He collapsed on the table top between Donny DePalma and his lawyer. Shocking them as he abruptly hefted the table and his body across the room. And what was left in the clearing was a perfect grey dance floor.

"I want to learn your dance technique." Goren urged the suspect. "So you took her hand and what'd you do with it? You held her hand." He grabbed DePalma and clenched his hand intimately. Alex was riveted. It was so charming and so inappropriate. Margie and Mcdowell looked on with varying degrees of alarm. Goren hauled the creaky, wooden perp to his feet and tucked him so close that even a lie couldn't pass between them.

"Then you held her hand, her palm snug in yours." Goren kicked the metal chair across the room. "You put your hand at the small of her back? You pulled her tight against you? Tighter?" His arm cinched. If they'd been close before, now bones were crunching, and suits were wrinkling in a homoerotic spectacle. "So she could feel your life flowing into her? Filling her up. Except it wasn't life was it Donny? It was sickness." A kick and turn, a tug and a whirl. It was a fully realized (reluctant) tango. "Your sickness. This dance was a dance of death." Another turn and now a shove.

A vicious shove.

"Get away from me." DePalma raged at last. Alex wondered that he'd let it go on that long. But she didn't waste a moment. See the dance, _the real dance,_ was between her and her partner. They had planned this:

"_I'll distract him."_

"_In that little room? How're you going to do that?"_

_His smile let her know she was in for a doozy. "Don't worry, just get in there when he's foaming at the mouth." _

_She nodded. "No problem."_

She looked at the suspect. He was foaming now. His eyes were fixed with black rage on Goren. She reached and pulled DePalma back almost protectively and dropped 4 damning white tablets into his suit pocket. She'd missed her calling, she shoulda been a pick pocket.

"Hold on a second. There were 17 tablets here how there'd only 13."

Alex pliéd low looking around with faux innocence "I don't see them." She said.

"Don't look at me?" DaPalma roared.

"Empty your pockets." Goren demanded. Reaching in and brandishing the planted tablets. Theatrics. "You see? When we were all just sitting here? You see what he was thinking about?" And of course the housewife crumbled. She hadn't been cut out for a life of crime anyway. She'd been reaching for fulfillment, she'd been reaching for affection, she'd been reaching for variety, she'd been reaching out of obscurity. They all knew that. And now she did too.

"I watched you very closely detective but I missed you slipping them into his pocket." Carver frowned in the aftermath, inclined to be skeptical and always pragmatic.

"Maybe because you watched the wrong detective." Alex suggested exiting stage behind Bobby.

Deakins threw roses.

The bullpen cried encore.

Not really. But it felt that way.


	32. Chapter 32

**DAW**

"I like it." Alex tracked him as he moved around their living room.

_Their_ living room.

They'd done it. They'd pulled the trigger on a condo. And it wasn't hers or his (though it was closer to hers then his). Nope. It was _theirs_. A completely new environment, unique to this growing organism called family. Of course concessions had been made. Staying in Forest Hills was one of them. Mostly because she was set in her ways. She had gotten used to her little borough. But Alex's obsession with location, location, location was no skin off Bobby's nose, he was as unattached as a bachelor could be. His apartment hunting style was best described as: agreeable. She'd been tempted to suggest they move to Alaska just to see if he'd say, "Sure."

In the end Alex concluded that Bobby's gift (he had a myriad of gifts) but in this case, his gift was looking beyond the conditions. He was chasing feelings, warmth, security, comfort and that wasn't bound to a building. She loved that about him, that he was dynamic, and free form, and game for anything. She loved that he couldn't be contained by a dwelling or a room or convention. But Alex had also seen something else in Bobby, over their brief house hunt. Something that ran deeper then just being willing to move.

He was rootless.

He didn't have an ounce of attachment to anything. He didn't care about his apartment or stuff. That wasn't true of course. He was bound to her and Jude, and he loved his books and clothes. But in the story of his life they were _so new._ She and Jude combined were a meager 7 percent of his total experience. Alex knew that Bobby's old narrative was bound to his family. Of course, his mother. But Frances was useless, her chemical soaked brain rarely hit optimal balance. So Alex had probed gently about his brother. The mysterious _Frank_. And he'd shrugged. Imagine, a whole relationship encapsulated by a lift of the shoulders. Undaunted, Alex had asked him about his father, another shrug, "He's gone."

"I know." She rolled her eyes. "Tell me something else."

"He was okay for a while. But he wasn't cut out for the straight life, a wife and kids, 9 to 5, fidelity. He didn't stick around." So she'd asked him about this estranged aunt. The one whose existence Alex had learned of when he'd Judased her in a bistro in Soho. By then she was on a mission to find some joy in his past. And he'd said,

"Yeah Marilyn. She's my dad's sister. I don't know her really. She came to visit us one weekend back when I was little. I only remember because she was _so blonde_ and because she had a fight with dad. It was a real shitstorm. We never saw her again after that."

Alex hid her disgust admirably. What kind of people had he been born to? They were so indifferent, so selfish, so cruel. And Bobby in contrast was _so_ _sensitive_. Like a sponge always absorbing, trying to filter out the toxicity. Alex looked into their unwritten future and wondered. Would he always be up to the job? Could anyone strike a saviour pose and hold it indefinitely? Could anyone internalize all that crud and stay optimistic? Or would he eventually darken, and harden, and turn to stone, under the roiling waves.

It scared the shit out of her.

That it was too much gloom.

Between the job and his family.

"Alex? Alex? Helloooo." Bobby snapped his fingers, and waved his hands, and hocus pocus the living room came back into focus. And a laugh catapulted from her diaphragm because he was standing in front of her modelling his new leather jacket. He slid it off, hooked a finger under the tag, then slung it over his shoulder, going for laid back cool. It was Gentlemen's Quarterly come to life.

Alex kept her lips even, though they fought _hard_ twitching to smile. She picked up her empty juice glass and held under her chin like a mock mic. Then she transformed into the MC at a bachelor auction, "Detective Goren likes rescuing New York City, speed-reading, and taking long walks on the beach."

His lips lifted briefly then fell, so he could stay in character. He was totally the moody male model. His eyes grew dark and distant. Then he strutted along an invisible catwalk, then turned abruptly and strutted back. Because he was fun. _So fun_. In that moment Alex felt silly for worrying about him at all. This guy wasn't in danger of anything except being sexy.

"Well what do you think?" He asked again. The coat had set him back $400 and he was feeling a little guilty, now that he was a family man and all.

"Nice ass." She teased.

"I meant about the jacket." He shook his head.

"I said I like it. Actually, I love it. It's perfect." Bobby had an eye for fit. Or maybe he had his clothes tailored (she wouldn't put it past him). Alex was finally seeing everything about him. And every detail felt important. Like, scribble it down in a spiral notepad so she wouldn't forget, important. This latest trait was something she'd oft observed, but never remarked on. Bobby was a fashionista. When he'd moved in, so had his clothes. They'd rolled in on a rack (tucked lovingly into garment bags and draped over solid maple hangers). She had mocked him relentlessly, she'd asked him what fashion house he represented. Then out came the shoes and she redoubled her taunts. He ignored her, as he set his footwear out on 3-tiered metal shelf. Then, from from the same duffle bag he produced shoe trees for all 5 pairs of leather uppers. He dug into the bag some more, and out came 2 pairs of athletic shoes, and then a pair of boat shoes all worn but still in their boxes, cradled in clumps of tissue paper. But he hadn't been done, oh no, beside all of it he'd loving placed a brown leather tool roll, only his wasn't filled with Philips's heads and socket wrenches, instead each slot held a brush or a spray or a disc of polish. It was enough to put a professional shoe shiner to shame.

"Diva!" She'd indicted riveted by the show.

"What? We have to look professional."

"Speak for yourself." Alex didn't take clothing nearly as seriously as he did. The NYPD dress code left a lot of room for interpretation. "We should have gotten 3 bedrooms." She'd muttered.

"This will fit it in the storage closet." He'd tapped the metal garment rack. "I checked."

"Is that why you were measuring?" She'd crowed, "So much for practical things like the ironing board and the vacuum cleaner."

"Does it really bother you?" He'd stopped and turned. She was riding him so hard he wondered if it was truly comedy, or if it was masking her fear of encroachment. Afterall this woman was used to ruling the roost. Maybe humour was the only way she could cope.

"No." She'd faltered a bit. "Of course not."

"I can understand, it's a lot of change." That was an understatement. Bobby 12 months ago would faint if he met Bobby today.

"No. We're together. Put your stuff wherever you want."

"Okay."

But later on, after some reflection Alex had realized he was right. The humour _was_ defensive, but not for the reasons he thought. Sure it was odd to see a man's things nestled in with her own, and it was odd to sell her home and find another in the span of a month, and it was odd to jostle her son playfully in her arms. But the real mind bender was her willing surrender. Alex had never surrendered this completely to anything. And now she was in so deep, she didn't know where he ended and she began. Today was day seven. They had been officially living together for a full week. And defenses were down. And they were getting along _so_ _well_. And they were comfortable. And she was being silly. And he was being silly.

"Do you really think I could of been a model?" He asked, still worshipping his new jacket, picking off imaginary fluff balls.

"Sure. A hand model." She slapped her knee, impressed with herself.

"You get funnier every day." He plopped down beside her, thigh to thigh.

"Thank you." She looked at him suspiciously, from about 5 millimetres off the end of his nose, that's how close he was. "Everything okay?" She asked a smile in her voice.

"Yep." He answered, and then the leaning started. He pitched his body against hers heavily.

"What are you doing?" Alex demanded, sliding sideways.

"Nothin'" He was all mass and force.

She tried to hold her ground against the back of the sofa, but her world tilted. "Ahhh. Stop it." She laughed pummelling him. This felt like something her brother would have done in grade school, 'died' on top of her. Or an action movie, where the ubiquitous steel door was closing and it was either squeeze past or be crushed. Crushed, she was definitely being crushed. She swiveled and pushed hard into his massive shoulder. But it was no use, soon she was prone and pinned. Alex may have been lying down, but she didn't take it that way. She pulled a beanie baby, a psychedelic turtle, from where it was wedged in the cushions (and the small of her back) and hit him in the side of the head with it.

"Nice." He grabbed the toy and threw it across the room. It knocked over a vase. They froze, watching as the ceramic thing rolled back and forth on the counter, in a wide unstable semi-circle. Then it stopped a hairsbreadth from the edge.

"Crack shot." She smirked.

"I meant to do that." He gathered her up and she settled under him like a habit. And he nestled into her cradle of her thighs. The weight of him was glorious. He gazed at her. She gazed back. This couple could make a meal of gazing. It was a consequence of years of telepathy. He thrust her shirt up. And took a deep yogic breath in the valley of her breasts. He nipped her nipples, leaving large authentic wet spots on her nursing bra. Which was the very moment that both cell phones began clamouring and glowing from the dining room table. The detectives groaned in unison as the ruckus put paid to their playdate. Tandem ringing only came from one place.

"Oh fuck." He sighed into her belly button.

"They have such a fucking knack for calling the second he goes to sleep." Alex echoed Bobby's intensity, immediately thinking of her son. _And oh the injustice!_ It had only been 1 day! 1 goddamn day. They had _just_ closed a case. They had _just_ mixed it up with the Damianios. They could have a _fucking_ hit on their heads, sticking it to the mob that way. Didn't that count for anything? Was this the new _fucking_ turnaround for a Major Case detective? 29 hours? _**We aren't machines!**_

Alex was livid. She spat her name into the phone like an epithet. "Eames!" She paused. "Uh huh... uh huh... Got it." He watched intently from the couch. "Goren? He's right here." Bobby's eyes widened and he looked at his watch. Obviously she didn't care what Deakins thought about them being together, at 9pm, between cases. Alex was reaching saturation point, and from this vantage it looked very unstable. "Yeah, yeah we'll be there." She slapped the technology down a little too hard, shooting it a quick glance to see if she'd cracked the screen. Then turned to her partner, "DB, looks like a hit and run but there's something hinky."

"Where?"

"Flatlands. 108th and Avenue J."

"Small mercies." He murmured it was only a 20 minute drive and enroute to Jack's.

"I guess I'll get him into the carseat." Her heart ached for her Jude, he wasn't guilty of anything except being born into this palaver. Alex picked up his tender sleeping form and tucked him close. He made those choked, mournful, noises of the untimely woken. "I'm sorry baby. Oh don't cry Juju." Eventually she cheated and shoved a nipple into his mouth, smoothing his crown and rubbing his padded bum. She paced the dark room with him latched. She felt that adrenaline working through her, her legs twitching, her heart pounding. It happened in anticipation of every single case. She wondered briefly if it changed her flavour in his mouth, the way it changed her basic nature from Alex to Eames. Her mind began to swirl, the sensations were coming now: the smell of death, the glow of streetlights, their joint power-trip when they walked onto a scene. But Alex tamped it down. She refused to rush. She let her child have his comfort. The baby settled in kneading and gnawing her flesh his eyes only slits now. Then in the eye of the storm, in the gap between tears and tears, she placed him gently into the Graco. She pulled his milk drunk little arms through all the gaps of the 5 point harness.

Jude sucked in a sniffle but didn't cry. Alex looked into those eyes, now big and brown and glossy, and imagined she saw patience, understanding and a hint of saintliness. She bent low and kissed his full cheeks. Then she tickled him with her lashes. Then she nuzzled his nose with her own. When she pulled back his look said, "Enough mom." And she laughed lightly. She tucked his fleece lovey around him, then zipped the carseat windbreaker in place. Then she stood back and sighed, finally confident that he was cozy and warm. "Okay. We're ready." Alex emerged from the dark corridor, the car seat bouncing against her thigh. "Did you text Julia?"

"Uh huh. She knows we're on our way. She'll get him to Liz's in the morning if this takes all night."

"_God_ don't say that." Alex was still pissed. She _wasn't_ changing out of her jeans, and she _wasn't_ going to stare at roadkill all night.

"I'm a realist." He shrugged.

"You gonna wear that?" She looked at the leather coat. "You want blood all over your new duds?" There was a crime scene gore metre, first and messiest were the jumpers, then the traffic accidents, third came the stabbings. With any of those, they were pretty much guaranteed to step in (or rub up against) some biological, especially at night. But for a cop, blessed was the overdose, or the hanging or the angel of mercy - because those vile acts were mostly fluid free. And even that gratitude was perverse. Their opinions on murder were almost as deviant as the crime itself. But this was the tightrope they walked. To be Goren and Eames was to embrace the morally grey.

"Why not, it'll see _a lot_ of crime scenes." He looked down and banked the memory of his pristine jacket. Then he picked up the car seat, lifting the flap to see his son. Jude's lashes were a dark puddle on flushed cheeks. He was sound asleep. _**What a handsome kid.**_

"Right." Alex nodded, "It should get used to service and duty and all that crap." And he wondered if she really meant the jacket.

"Heigh ho?" He asked, as was their way. Tonight she responded,

"Fuck the NYPD."

He laughed and locked the door.

* * *

Lingard was a creep.

It had taken all of 5 seconds for them to reach that consensus.

The doctor's mind games left them cold.

Bobby and Alex sat across from each other at their desks in the bullpen, spitballing over a clutter of autopsy reports and cremations records. He loved this part, the expansion of the hunch into a full blown theory. Their roles in this process had evolved over time. And it was the perfect evolution. Alex remembered the early days. She remembered wanting to murder him because of all of the grand standing and baseless supposition. But Deakins was an oracle. He had once suggested that Alex had to ramp it up and Bobby had to dial it back. He had been so right. Now she threw out the brash ballparks, and he absorbed them. He quietly integrated them into a mental collective. Because he could. He was a computer. For Alex the workday was one extended session foreplay. The way he pounced on a pattern made her moist.

She slapped down the phone. "Jonas Memorial has a record of a call cancelling an ambulance run to Mrs. Pierce's address. But no record of any ambulance being ordered in the first place."

"Well, the call to cancel was all for show." Bobby concluded. "To cover the fact that he never ordered an ambulance."

"Probably because Mrs. Pierce was already dead from the first time he saw her. Maybe from malpractice. A blowhard like him wouldn't want to admit he was incompetent, he might try to cover it up with a cremation." Alex laid all of her prejudices bare.

"Mrs. Pierce's medicare records are consistent with what he told us. He diagnosed her with atrial fibrillation 4 months ago." It didn't jog. He held up a pic of their vic. "And there's the ring."

"He stole it." Alex shot out indignantly. "Probably to distract us from malpractice." Clearly she liked that angle. But Bobby didn't think it was the whole story. Eventually it was the numbers that clicked. Dates. Numerical equivalence bridged the gap. The doctor had laid eyes on his patient's expensive jewellery and decided the patient was of lesser value. The date stamps didn't lie. He told Eames as much.

She leaned over him, wafting down peach parfait body spray (and gleeful vindication). "He sees the ring and he lays the groundwork for a cause of death."

"And a means of disposing of the body."

"And I thought he was just incompetent."

"The certificate was notarized. Look at the notary's address." He focused her.

"Lingard's hospital. Way to manipulate the system."

* * *

The notary was exactly the kind of good-natured sucker that every murdering medical practitioner should have at his disposal. Goren twisted back and made a face just for Eames; thin lips and wiggly brows. Because to them this woman was a cartoon character. They could barely fathom that people like her existed. She was so bright and chipper and free of guile. It was rare, but every once in awhile they came across an innocent. All of the plans they'd hatched in the hallway got pocketed, and they pulled on their kid gloves.

"Oh yes that's me I notarize all sorts of documents. Thanks to my notary's licence I meet so many nice people." Her bright beads and red hair screamed HAPPY.

"Including Mrs. Pierce? Dr. Lingard bring her in?" The woman's nod was spare and worried. "Do you keep a notary book? Can we see her entry?"

"February 1st. Here she is." The notary handed the leather bound book to Goren.

He didn't even need to look, this was the part of their schtick that would work quite nicely. " Oh, uh is that her thumbprint there?"

"Yes."

"She doesn't have a scar, Mrs. Peirce had a scar on her thumb. This thumbprint has no scar." He repeated ramping up the discomfort.

"Oh darn, Dr. Lingard told me she was too sick to come to the hospital herself. It's never been a problem before."

"Before?" He tweaked to the word. "You've notarized other cremation certificates for Dr. Lingard? How many?"

"Well, I've been here 8 years so…"

* * *

248 suspicious deaths.

That was what 8 years of impunity meant.

It was so disturbing.

They had seen this before. They had dealt with nurses who had willfully endangered their patients, just for the glory of a successful resuscitation. They'd met first responders, who had manufactured the very crime they had responded to. These cops had seen the full spectrum of criminality.

But this?

The scope, the sheer dedication to maleficence, made even these two jaded detectives slump back in their chairs. Even more upsetting was the silent accomplice. The reason Dr. Edwin Lingard had gone so long undetected. He had attacked the voiceless class. There were vulnerables on the periphery of every society - the very aged, the very young, the homeless, the addicted. Goren and Eames had seen time and time again how these disenfranchised made for easy prey.

But this?

Goren's palm was over his lips, his brow was creased. His distress was deep. "What do you want to do?" He asked his partner. Of course he knew what the law dictated. His query ran deeper then procedure. He wanted to know how hard they should go in.

Eames locked eyes with him. "Let's bring that pompous asshole to his knees."

He nodded slowly. She was right. A quiet take down wasn't enough, not this time. Goren got to thinking about maximum humiliation. He got to thinking about maximum pain.

See? Morally grey.

* * *

It went off perfectly. It would have been better if they'd made the arrest in front of an auditorium of Lingard's peers, but a dinner party would do.

In the aftermath the detectives felt moody. After the surge had mellowed. After the cuffs were on. They looked out their respective car windows. Their lips pulled downward, their muscles still tight, because sometimes even success felt inadequate. And also, this moment was new. This was the first time in their history, that they had ridden the momentum of a case right out into the SUV, and all the way home. Their _mutual_ home. This was the first time that there was no space to 'come down' in private. No solitude to reset their emotions.

And it was _hard_.

_So hard_.

To be locked against someone, when you wanted to be by yourself. This was more then feeling that _**'some quiet time would be nice'**_. Bobby craved deprivation, a complete suspension of thought and body and sensual stimulation. What he wouldn't give to be locked naked in a small dark tank of water no floor, no ceiling, no thought. But he wasn't. So he thought of Frank, of his mom, _of Jude._ They were all ripe for exploitation. Even his baby, especially his baby, all voiceless. He knew so many victims waiting to happen. And they were chewing on cerebral cortex. How could he protect them all?

"That nanny had better be decent." He burst, with no lead in, or fade out.

"Of course she's decent." Alex was in a hell of her own, and she didn't welcome his added dysfunction. "You were there! We agreed, we _all_ agreed! She had a clean record, good references, an ECE diploma, CPR certification. She was a dream."

"Still you never know."

"Oh spare me your dark pessimistic bullshit. We're doing the best we can."

"Are we?" He said 'we' but he really meant 'I'. He shouldn't have dragged Alex into all of it. He hadn't seen Frank in years. He hadn't looked for him either. Frank might be a cold case. Frank might be a bankers box in a some city evidence locker. Some brother. He didn't deserve the moniker. And his mom, he hadn't seen her in over a week. Alex had gotten into his head. Telling him his own mother was manipulative. He'd taken a step back from his mom to keep his home life stable.

"Of course we are!" More then anything Alex resented his instability. She needed reassurance. "What? Now you're going to grow a conscience? Now it's about what's best for Jude? Well you're a day late and a dollar short buddy!" She spat. It was easy to go here. _So easy._ Knee-jerk in fact. It was a well traveled neural pathway.

Every time Alex was away from her son she remembered the alternate future she had wanted to give him. And it was a bitter, bilious, _guilty,_ place to be trapped. It was the horror of thinking of someone else raising her child, juxtaposed by the knowledge that someone virtually was. Many someones. Many someones were doing her job. She and Bobby were never there. And she ached for Jude, little voiceless Jude. And she ached for the teenager, _the man,_ he might become. One who thought his parents had put him second, to fight some dubious battle (were they even helping the world? Or were they just destroying themselves?). And that was the biggest ache of all, how little she could do. Alex felt powerless as a mother _and_ as a cop. Powerless to make anything better.

"Screw you! You still want to give away our son. Even now?! Even knowing how beautiful he is! Clearly Lingard isn't the only psychopath!" Bobby soon found that rage felt better then despair.

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Her chin quivered. He was twisting a knife inside a gaping wound.

"You have ice in your veins." He couldn't stop the cruelty.

Alex swerved into a designated bus lane, accidentally mounting the curb. The vehicle rocked back and forth crazily, on an angle. "Get out!" She screeched. "Get out." This time her voice was flat, even and dead. She didn't even care that it was a shitty neighbourhood.

"Fine by me." He had his gun, and his MetroCard and a deep yen to be away from her.

"Don't come home until you're human." She yelled.

"Textbook projection!" He yelled back, barely slamming the door before she reversed dangerously into traffic and sped away.

Then he was alone'ish' on a dark grey sidewalk. Bobby looked down. How fitting. He was standing where he'd been dumped, in a pile of garbage. He saw, wrappers, big black bags, broken cardboard boxes, and heaps of old muddy sneakers knotted together at the laces. And his left foot was tangled in it. That was when realized it was moving, the whole filthy mess was undulating. _**Rats! Ew!** _But it wasn't. It was a homeless man wrapped head to toe in a blackened comforter. He sat up and swatted at Bobby's calf.

"Sorry. Oh god, sorry." Bobby hopped back so quickly that he almost lost a shoe.

Then he looked up at the street signs to get his bearings._** Looks like it's just you and me Bed-Stuy.**_

* * *

She was already asleep when he arrived at Carmel Ridge. He'd missed his opportunity to hug his mom. And okay, hug was optimistic. He'd really missed getting a dressing down for not visiting enough. He would have welcomed her familiar sassing tonight.

He parked his butt and thigh on her twin mattress. Balancing there. She didn't stir. The medication had done it's work. He smoothed back her grey hair, and he looked for reflections of himself in her relaxed slumberous features. He desperately wanted to belong to somebody.

But no one was there.

So instead, from a lackful, heartsick place he committed silently to being a better son.

* * *

He was already asleep when she arrived at Jack's. She'd missed her opportunity to play with her son. And okay, maybe playing was optimistic. Jude was coming into himself. His waking hours were for rolling and a new independence. He tumbled across rooms now, like the world was all downhill. Her maniacal little gymnast. Alex would have welcomed that beautiful toothless smile tonight.

She parked her butt and thigh on the twin mattress. Balancing there. She squeezed around the safety side guards to reach out to him. Her baby didn't stir. The busy day, had done it's work. She smoothed back his satiny brown hair and she looked for reflections of herself in his relaxed slumberous features. She desperately wanted to belong to somebody.

But she let him sleep, because it wasn't about her anymore, her heart was beating inside that little boy.

So instead, she slid into bed beside him, and from a loving, wondrous place she committed silently to being a better mother.

* * *

**_Season 3 finis_**


	33. Chapter 33

**Season 4**

**SEMI-DETACHED**

"You look like shit."

"Thanks."

She didn't pull her words, and he never expected it. He ran a hand over a neglected chin, and his fingers sank days deep in stubble. Tired? Dehydrated? Indifferent? Whatever the case, his lids scraped against his eyeballs, as if taking DNA samples of misery. She quietly observed his hobo look as he hauled into the SUV in the dim morning light. She hadn't seen him yet today, so separate were their AM routines. Alex had quietly been watching the phases of his beard - from sexy, to hungover rockstar, to scurvy pirate (in her opinion a new low).

Living together was a window on some of the incompatible (if not unsavoury) habits her partner had. Of course _she_ was no princess either. Alex imagined that co-habitating with her, was like riding with a salty tongued New York cabbie - all opinions and snacks and coffee. But there was this thing with Bobby, one overarching idiosyncrasy. He was an insomniac. She had noticed his nocturnal wanderings while they been 'dating' (she always put that word in air quotes, or snarked _**sub the 'd' for 'm'**_ mostly as a dig at him, or a secret yearning for convention) but back then it hadn't seemed to matter. Then, when they'd moved in together, Alex had, for some time, thought it her duty to corral him, or coddle him with mugs of warm milk (and an Ambien chaser). But soon that witching hour loyalty had expired. Her son had clarified her priorities. She could only handle one baby at a time. As a consequence, at least three nights out of seven she slept alone. She would wake to find Bobby in creative (sitting on the toilet seat slumped against the vanity) and not so creative (on the couch) poses, clearly taking the sleep wherever it came.

Recently it had gotten worse, though. Perhaps in direct correlation to the added amount of time he'd been spending with his mother.

_"I know you don't like her." He'd said defensively._

_"I don't know her."_

_"I want you to, but it's too risky."_

_"I know, I know." Alex waved him off, secretly rolling her eyes._

_"Come on, we're getting married, we have a kid. Do you think I take any pleasure in keeping you apart?"_

Her issue was definitely his level of commitment, that the bulk of it was directed elsewhere. Jealousy felt awful, especially being jealous of _his mom_. Ewww. Alex didn't want to be a stereotype, hating her would-be mother-in-law, but it was hard being left of the guest list of such an important party. She felt (quite validly) that there was an enormous part of Bobby that she would never understand. Add to that his often intimidating mental faculties, and the way they manifested all over the house (as intense reading and a lot of C-SPAN) and she was finding life with Robert Goren to be increasingly lonely.

Alex questioned that. Questioned herself. _**How can you be lonely when he's ****always** **there? **_That was the age old question wasn't it? What was loneliness anyway? It clearly wasn't about the proximity of people. She lived in the densest city in North America, by that measure she should be Thoreau, making for the solitude of the woods. No, clearly loneliness was rooted in some absence of understanding, of validation, _of resonance_ with another human being. And Bobby was slowly moving to a place she couldn't conceptualize.

_"I just want to make sure we're doing everything we can for her." _He said of his mother. All Alex heard was we, this mysterious we. Who were they? Likely the team of counsellors, nurses and doctors he actually confided in. People who knew the score._ "I'm going to start going a couple of times a week again."_

_"Okay. But are you also going to put more hours in the day?" _She got a dig in. She couldn't imagine the kind of guilt, that lived in the bones, of a grown man who needed to see his mother that often. **But guilty about what?** Alex had a feeling there was some skewed childhood recollection driving this. Something that had set him on this trajectory of martyrdom. But she wasn't his shrink, and she couldn't sort it all out for him. It was all she could do to be a cop, and a mom. He gave her a sour look. He didn't care for her assessments. Instead of backing off Alex doubled down._"I mean, between work and Jude we're barely holding on."_ His look grew even more stormy. She tried hard not to imagine what he was thinking. Her most salient takeaway from her marriage to Joe, was that there was no bottom to the misery unleashed once one started to guess the feelings of another. And worse when one changed ones behaviour to suit those assumptions.

_"You have to make time for what's important." _He said with superiority. As if he'd found the meaning of life.

_"Good luck with that."_

* * *

And now they were here on a four hour drive upstate to Ithaca. And he looked, as she'd said, like shit. An obvious indicator of the perils of his new philosophy.

"Why don't you sleep. I'm good for this, I got a full night." Alex said.

"I don't think I can."

"What's going on?" She ventured to ask.

"Worried I guess."

"About?"

"Life."

"That's big. Want to narrow it down."

"Not really."

She sighed. Ray Garnett's stupid rehab clinic was halfway across the state. It was the first time she had considered petitioning Deakins for a short haul flight. It wasn't like the NYPD didn't have the budget. But she couldn't reasonably justify it. She and Bobby had driven to Rhode Island just over a year ago, and several other places even farther afield, over the course of their partnership. She had never so much as peeped a complaint. Of course before this year there hadn't been a Jude.

Deakins had cheerfully said,_ "Expense the night if you need to."_

Time was, that suggestion would have sounded like a vacation to a lifelocked gal like Alexandra. But now it was a threat, a threat that she wouldn't see her baby for over 24 hours. What she wouldn't do to go back in time and fess up that she had a kid. Even if she had to paint herself as a single mom. This mess they called a life, was exactly what happened when she and Bobby worked at cross purposes.

So Alex had done the only thing she could, she'd gotten them into the car and on the road by 6am, hoping, optimistically, that they would be back by 6pm; factoring the interview and breaks. As she pulled the car away from their apartment, and made her way towards the city limits, she'd thought she was fine. Fine with waking up _alone_, and fine with hustling her son to her brother's in the dark of night _alone_, and fine with idling on the curb repeatedly calling Bobby's cell to hurry him to the car, because he was still upstairs doing God knew what. But about 65 silent minutes in, she felt the pressure reach such an uncomfortable crescendo in her head, that she knew it was either speak her mind or have her skull cap rocket off, and her surprised spaghetti arms flip them into a drainage ditch.

"I didn't sign up for this Bobby." She waited. He said nothing, so she kept going. "It's fine, no _it's great_ when were clicking, but now you're falling apart and it's too much." He turned and looked at her _so_ slowly, his eyes glassy pools of fatigue, and she wondered if he wasn't sleeping with them open.

"Okay." He muttered.

_**Okay? Okay!**_

She couldn't believe how cavalier he was with her feelings. That was it? No sorry? No promises? No assertions that they would work it out? Alex remembered his pursuit of her, she remembered two years of flirting, and catch and release, and sensual mind games. Rational or not, it felt like she was being cut loose, like he was just letting it all go in a single syllable.

"Okay? Great! So it was nice knowing you... um... See you at work tomorrow... um… here's your ring. What the hell Bobby? I get it, the world is a bad place, and our job is to deal with the bad people, and your mom is sick, and your brother's awol, but you have to pull it together. You told me we would be a family, and now I'm all alone, all the time! Even when you're here I'm all alone! Get some fucking sleep!"

"This is about my mother." And he said it with such slow, methodical, dedication to each word that she felt a shiver work through her. She stopped the car right there on the interstate. Then she unbuckled, turned, and her hands were all over him, pressed to his forehead, cupping his jaw, over his heart, then both palms were flattened to his cheeks. She looked into those eyes she knew so well, but this time it was an ocular examination. This time it was about the dilation of his pupils. She moved from side to side a little, to see if he would track her with his gaze. He didn't.

"What did you take?" It was a wonder she'd missed it.

"Nothing."

"What did you take!?" She yelled tenacious in her certainty.

"Just an old prescription. A coupla milligrams." He was dragging.

"Milligrams of what?!" She demanded.

He looked at her damningly mute, with pathetic hound dog eyes.

She shook her head. And felt that familiar ripping inside at her guts. The schedule was about to go out the window. She merged into traffic and exited some 20 minutes later. Into the small borough of Stroudsburg, PA. They were hours from their intended destination. But what could she do? He had to take precedence. Without any effort, she spotted the green and yellow illuminated sign she was looking for, it was on a 40 foot metal stilt after all. It beckoned weary travellers in from the motorway. The Quality Inn. It became their final resting place.

"Why are you stopping?" He asked, so late out of the gate that it frightened her. _**A couple of milligrams my ass. Sonofabitch.**_

Wordlessly she grabbed their duffle bags out of the trunk, and made for the front door of the building, leaving him buckled and stoned in the front seat. Then, she returned for him like an infant, once she had secured a room and debagged.

"C'mon."

"This isn't Ithaca."

"And they call _him_ the genius." She groused. "No this is a bed where you are going to sleep off whatever you did to yourself."

He frowned. "I'm fine. The schedule."

"It's shot. Come on."

* * *

At some point during their misadventure, Alex realized something that solidified the roles in their relationship forever. She realized that taking care of him was preferable to being excluded, and that vulnerability loosened his tongue just enough for him to let her in.

"Lie with me." He cooed from the bed, in the dim generic room. The blackout blinds were drawn, but Alex could see light from the hall creeping in under the ruler straight line of the door. She could hear the nagging whine of the central air system, she could smell faux apples n' spice wafting up a plug-in air freshener, she could feel the low tight pile of commercial grade carpet under her socks, she could count 5 unnecessary (by her cutting estimation) large pieces of wooden furniture: an armoire, a desk, a console table, a chest of drawers and a single bedside table that made the room asymmetrical, and yet the gap where the other should have been was a nice relief to the eye. _**What? Did you get the bulk deal. All the ugly furniture you can handle for $99.95?**_

"Alex." He called.

"No. I'm good." She squeezed the padded arms of the chair, restlessly. This close up she could see the ghost of gold geometric patterns under her fingertips. Getting Bobby into the bed had taken a long time. Making the phone calls to push all their appointments back, had taken an equal portion. Reconciling her intentions for the day with her intert reality? Well, that was a work in progress.

"Alex." He called again.

"_I'm angry at you."_ She ground her molars. The rage was tight in her throat. And she dug a brutal fingernail into her earlobe just to feel the distraction of pain.

"I know."

"What do you think you're doing Bobby? Why do you think you can pull this shit? The stakes..."

"Are high. I know."

"Going to a rehab centre? A stoned cop? How long before they figured it out and reported you. I don't understand you at all!" _**I try and I try and I try**_.

"Please _come here_. I can't sleep without you."

"You never sleep with me!" She snorted. Yeah, he could get his dick hard. No problems in that department. There wasn't a surface in that apartment he hadn't taken her on, but the _sleeping, _the _sleeping_ was the thing.

"The only time I ever sleep well is with you." He said.

"Then I guess you haven't slept well in about a week."

"I haven't." He drawled. "That's why I took…"

Now she leaned in, "What? Tell me."

"Come." He bargained for her warmth with the promise of information. And she was drawn to that like a child to the piper's melody.

"Fine." She walked over and lay perfunctorily, rigidly on the left side of the mattress, arms and legs crossed, waiting. He moved to draw her in and she pinched his forearms. "No!"

"No funny business." He assured her, and she let him pull her plank-like body close. Her blouse, and blazer, and slacks chafed his bare skin.

"Didn't you wonder how I knew so much about Paroxetine?"

"I never wonder how you know so much about anything."

"Well I didn't take Paroxetine, but I was prescribed, Fluoxetine in a less intense regimen, about 4 years ago after dad died. I don't even know why that depressed me. I hardly knew the guy."

"So you had some leftover?" She felt him nod.

"I don't think it mixed well with the sleeping pills. I just wanted to sleep."

"_You can't do that."_ She repeated, broken'est' of records. She imagined him, standing over the kitchen sink with a fistful of pills, praying for oblivion. "What if you'd ODed? _What if i'd been sleeping and you ODed!?_"

"It wasn't enough for that."

Her laugh sounded like a sob, "Not this time." And fear of losing him made her grip the hot spongy expanse of his back. _**Oh Bobby, Bobby, Bobby**_.

"Not _anytime_." He promised to _live_. And she would hold him to those words ever after.

"Have you… Have you always had a hard time sleeping?" Alex almost didn't ask. The rejection always felt so sore. He surprised her. He wrapped her tighter, putting her in mind of a boy with a teddy bear. Then he put his nose to her crown and took such a deep breath that she thought it would never end. Then he gusted that bellyful back over her, like the warm air from a subway grate.

"When I was little my mom had her worst episodes in the middle of the night. I think she scared the sleep out of me." He tried to make it funny. Alex wasn't laughing. "Or maybe I inherited it."

"What was she doing? In the middle of the night?" Alex asked faintly, afraid to spook him into silence.

"Cursing us. Cursing God. Praying, rattling, banging." Bobby had always considered this insomnia his streak of white hair. The indelible mark of a sudden fright. "She was different in the morning, she was nicer, and she was all we had." He reminded. Alex fought not to _hate_ Frances Goren. Not to spring up, drive to Carmel Ridge and punch the crone in the teeth. Because she loved Bobby so. And because she superimposed Jude onto that historical scene, to her own detriment. "Anyway it's been with me to varying degrees my whole life. It flairs up, I don't know why."

"Change?" She suggested.

"Maybe, in part." He sighed. "Or maybe I'm just thinking too much."

"You? _Never_." They both huffed out a laugh. "Thank you." She added after a long pause.

"Hmmm?"

"For talking to me."

It hurt, in his chest that she thanked him for that. How awful was he? "We're a team." He said and it sounded right. Not at all platitudey. "I'll do better."

"We _are_ a team. Now sleep Goren."

She pulled rank, and _finally_ he fell in line.

* * *

At Hopemore Clinic Dr. Nouriyani's demeanour told them he wasn't happy being rescheduled. Or about being questioned for that matter. He rocked back and forth in his leather chair, glancing at them side on.

"He did individual and group therapy in the 3 days he was here, and I gave him the antidepressant Paroxetine. Helped him stay away from painkillers."

But the doctor's body wasn't the one Alex was reading. It was Bobby's the moment Nelda Carlson walked into the room. The deferential rise to his feet, the widening of his eyes, then their self-conscious cast downward to his shoes. The whole scene put Alex in mind of another interview, one in a penthouse, off the campus of Hudson University, when Nicole Wallace had sauntered in.

Of course Nicole had been a vixen. With a mouthful of pithy prose, a lithe body, and torso wrapped in tailored raw silk. Nicole had ruled the world. Dainty little Nelda would be better suited to the church pew or perhaps even the cloisters of a convent. Alex kept her gaze trained on the woman's baby pink sweater set. She had blonde tresses, moulded to her head in the same side twists Alex had once put on her 2 year old niece Annabell. Nelda looked vintage, or perhaps biblical, Mary circa immaculate conception.

She didn't look like a temptress.

But still there was something in the air…

* * *

Bobby ran a razor over the hollows of his cheeks, working his jaw this way and that for the cleanest closest shave. He wouldn't admit it, but suddenly there was renewal. An inexplicable verve. _**It's Alex. It's the way Alex loves me.**_ A tremor shook his hand and he nicked his cheek. Catholic guilt.

_**Nelda Carlson.**_

She was delicate. The type of woman a breath could rustle. She had pointed anglo features; a nose and chin sharp enough to slice, flat raspberry lips, and big blue eyes; that looked like saucers of innocence. Not that he was sold on that. Her innocence. This was merely an impartial assessment of her appearance. This was what her physical package of attributes might conjure in the average man.

And there was something else he sensed in Nelda. A wobble. She'd hardly exchanged anything with him. She'd hugged her papers like a shield. She'd been shy and kind. And yet he'd felt the mental schism in her, felt it as real as most people felt their own discontent. Bobby didn't label this awareness a gift. It was hard won and reluctantly honed. He'd met _a lot_ of imbalanced people.

He bent low and cupped his palms under the stream of water, filling them, and dousing his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He watched the translucent liquid drip off his new shiny chin. He was everything that Nelda wasn't. His features were round, his lips were full. He was wide and sturdy and very nearly olive. A perfect foil. He slapped his cheek and threw a fine spray onto the mirror. These were dangerous considerations.

"Bobby!" Alex marched into the bathroom and gave him an armful of baby. "I need to shower can you take him?" It was a rhetorical question because she was already unbuttoning her pajama top.

Now another dimension was added to his reflection. His son. A perfect boy, that looked a lot like him in all the obvious ways. Dark hair and eyes, stockier then average, and a little longer too. And the story went on, only a white diaper on Jude, and only white, towel wrapped, hips for dad. Remarkably similar attire. Bobby smiled. And Jude smiled mimicking him. Bobby cupped the little boy's bare back, and kissed his buttery cheek and Jude accepted the love as his birthright. It was quite wonderful the way his child sat against him, moulded to his chest, yet holding his head and shoulders erect, and alert, and ready for more.

Bobby could see Alex's naked form just behind them, as she reached in to adjust the temperature of the water. He could see the slender line of her shoulders and the apple of her bum and the notches of her vertebrae as she curved. The room was a misty, intimate nudist colony.

Bobby plunged his nose into the crook of Jude's little neck and got a hysterical giggle. "Is that funny? Is daddy tickling you?"

"Da da." Jude said and both adult eyes fixed on him. This tiny tyke babbled a lot, but today it was, clean, structured, and definitively a word.

"Yes dada." Bobby encouraged gleefully.

"Figures." He heard Alex snark, because there were no mamas in the offing. But he also heard her smile, he heard her face splitting with pride. Maybe they weren't fucking Jude up as much as they thought. Maybe nature's natural set point was well being.

Then Bobby spoke to his son of all the wonders of manhood. Razors, and hot face cloths, and aftershave, and nose trimmers, and deodorant - the smell of which wrinkled Jude's small nose.

"Dress him would ya? I laid it out on the change table." Alex called from behind the purple shower curtain.

"Will do" Bobby open the bathroom door, and the shock of the cold air in the hallway was like inter-dimensional travel. It reboot his system. His mind started churning. Jude became little more then a sack of baked potatoes in his arms, warm, soft, dense, inanimate.

He started thinking of the day ahead.

He resumed thoughts of unstable blondes.

_**I need to see Nelda again.**_

* * *

They were headed back to Ithaca. This time it was a much different kind of drive. Alex surrendered the wheel for one. And in a bit of turnabout reclined the seat and pulled out a book. Bobby ducked down to catch sight of the cover. He saw the thick black and orange sketched lines of a tigers face.

"Life of Pi."

"Uh huh."

"Do you like it?" He craned his neck again. She was on page 105.

"Uh huh."

"The fantastical, harrowing journey of a boy and a tiger, or is it…"

She pursed her lips, and looked up, "Don't ruin it." She didn't ask if he'd read it. He'd read everything. She'd pulled this off _his_ shelf two weeks ago. In contrast to Bobby, Alex read at a glacial pace. Preferring to keep a book alive. Preferring a month (or more) of clandestine rendezvous with it. A book for Alex was several small paper vacations.

"What scene are you reading?" He asked craning some more. He was bored she could tell. When she drove she was never bored. For Alex driving was a meditative experience. She liked how the road rushed to meet her, and how her body knew just what to do. What Alex _didn't_ know was why Bobby's moods weren't just an abstraction to her. Why did she always have to zero in, and make them more important then her own?

"Do you want me to drive?" She asked, annoyed with herself.

"I just asked how far along you were." He held two palms up in surrender.

"Uh huh."

Now she couldn't read. She watched out of the corner of her eye, as he scrubbed at his face, and hair, and neck. Then as his fingers flexed. Then as he massaged his shoulders in a slow circular sweep; on a search and destroy mission for seized muscles. Then as he began pulling at the floor mat. Then as he wriggled like an earthworm in the bucket seat.

"Pull over."

* * *

Nelda was at the clinic again. Alex watched her partner brighten when the petit woman walked in. _**And what manners**_. The thing that struck Alex most was his stillness. In contrast to the Bobby of their road trip, this Bobby was a fjord, deep, and placid, and enigmatic, set between two feminine bluffs. His manicured hands were clasped on the tabletop. His face was soft and receptive. Almost as if the pretty puzzle of the nurse satisfied him on a cellular level.

From Bobby's perspective this was perfect. He felt like himself again, rested and tidy. And he felt intrigued, being intrigued was his crack. Bobby liked Nelda. He thought she looked very clean and fetching today, dressed all in blue. He liked her enough to be honest when she probed his personal life from across the clinic table.

"How did you know about Ziprasidone?" She asked innocently.

"Well m- my mother takes it for schizophrenia. You know, but it makes her very restless."

"There are other drugs available without that side effect. I could look them up."

"Well I, I'm sure you're very busy between your job and home. You have kids?" He gestured, "Y-your wedding ring."

"Oh. You're very, you're very vigilante. No, no just my husband. She seems very a... nice, your partner.

"She is, she's a great partner." _**Better then me.**_ More guilt.

"You don't feel you're carrying more then your fair share of the work?"

"No. We have complimentary skills."

"It's kind of you to say that."

He raised a mental eyebrow, at the off'ness' of the statement. His profile was filling in nicely. He felt his face flush and he wondered if she was profiling him too. He usually managed to hide his reactions better. But a lot of emotions were coursing through him. More then usual. Most notable, was the rush and thrust of guilt at taking Alex's name in vain, while so personally intrigued by another woman.

He felt relieved, _he felt saved_ when Alex came back and took her seat beside him.

* * *

And yet he couldn't seem to stay away. Back in the city he popped up out of the darkness in front of Nelda's home. He'd come alone. He had a mission. He also had a craving, one he didn't want Alex to see.

"I got those…" He took the grocery bags right out of her dainty hands.

"Detective what are you…"

"I didn't mean to ambush you, but this morning you talked about new treatments for schizophrenia and I'm going to see my mother's doctor tomorrow."

"Right, uh I found a new regimen using Risperidone. It's less likely to produce restlessness. How old were you when she developed symptoms?"

"Uh 7. She's been slipping away from me my whole life, I just can't seem to let go of her, you know what I mean?" Bobby managed just the right ratio of truth to fallacy. The mark of a good liar. "Look, uh, maybe I could get the name of that drug from you."

"I already wrote it down, I was going to send it to you." She was _nice. _He felt taken in by that.

"Maybe we can get together some time, for a cup of coffee or something?"

"Detective," She said bashfully. "I'm a married woman."

"Uh no. No you're not, no. You've been divorced for 6 years. You still wear your wedding ring." He flowed easily into the profile. "You haven't stopped loving him. You have a big heart I like that. Maybe when we see each other next time you can call me Robert." He _would_ like her lips to shape his name, his given name. She gave him that shy trademark smile, only this time with a dash of coy thrown in. And she turned and went into the building.

Bobby loitered under in the cast of a streetlamp, and watched her board the elevator. He watched the gentle sway of her small square hips. He watched them like a hungry man. He watched like a predator. He looked at his wrist. 8pm. He felt the weight of domesticity pressing down. He didn't feel like going home. He didn't feel like bottles and burping and bedtime stories tonight. He felt like a _man,_ hormonal and aroused. _**Mentally aroused. **_He cautioned himself. Nelda Carlson didn't make him hard. She made him yearn for understanding. Understanding he felt was missing at home.

No one had _ever_ helped him shoulder his mother's needs before. _No one. _No one seemed to care about Frances unless he paid them. But there were those, like Nelda who had a deranged kinship with his mother. Nelda didn't fool him. Her professional facade, _'this drug and that drug',_ couldn't hide her disturbed motivations. He savoured her sweet, weirdness for a moment. And because it was a lateral thought, he wondered, for the first time in ages, where Nicole was. He looked up at the black sky, at the clouds and their wispy gradation. He watched some of that inky film slide over the full moon. He pretended he could see the stars. And he considered of the vastness of the universe and his place in it.

Then _**click!**_

_Like that,_ he was back. And he was a cop. And he was in the service of the citizens of New York. He pulled out his recording device and walked straight toward a payphone.

"Just wanted to make sure that you got up to your apartment okay." He murmured intimately.

Her voice was thicker, heavier more sultry. "Yes I did. Goodnight Robert."

_**'Robert'**_ it prickled. He shivered.

* * *

"The tape of the nurse what do you think?" Deakins feigned casual.

"Of her?" Alex asked, because two could play at that game.

"Of him. A bit personal?"

"He was just playin' her." Alex covered, and Jimmy looked thoroughly unconvinced.

After he walked away Alex sat at her desk, stacking papers like an automaton. She moved robotically, but she felt tired. She felt tired of Bobby. She loved him and she also didn't. She had been awash in deja vu this whole case. Every time she turned around, he ran off to solve without her. And last night. He'd been at her apartment, _her apartment for fuck's sake_. And now Alex was here, doing piles of paperwork, the grunt work, _alone_ because of course he was MIA._** He's ****probably trying to figure out how to get into her pants.**_ That thought burned. It made her hands falter.

In their professional world, Alex knew where her loyalties lay. Alex _always_ played it cool for the brass. 'My partner right or wrong' it was their motto. But she hadn't signed up for 'my boyfriend right or wrong'. Another nutcase had caught his fancy. _**That's the problem. You're not crazy enough.**_ Bobby didn't appreciate her sanity, her stability. He abused it. He acted anyway he pleased because he knew she would pick up the pieces. He knew she would soothe Deakins, he knew she would cradle his baked body, he knew she would be at home waiting. It wasn't just Nicole and Nelda. He'd done it with Jude too. He had made the grand overture to '_save a life'_, but now she was the one sacrificing her flesh and heart _everyday_ on the altar of their son's thriving.

Bobby was uncommitted, immature, untethered.

How ironic that a few weeks ago she'd admired that very trait, that he was rootless. Wasn't that the biggest cliche of all. Didn't the spirit of the freebird always become the albatross? Alex sighed, pushed up from her desk, and took that hard rhythmic walk to where Bobby sat alone in Conference Room 1. As she turned the knob she thought _**The department should rename this room 'Reality Check'. **_She'd used it to deliver enough of them - to him.

He was there, deep in thought, hunched over a trinket. "That a souvenir badge?" She asked quietly.

"It's for Nelda Carlson,"

"You pinning her?"

"Well she's very empathetic." He didn't meet his partner's eye. He couldn't.

"You gave her a lot to be empathetic about." Alex couldn't rage, or yell, or swear. Not here. And sadly, she doubted it would have any effect on him when he was like this. He was an armoured ball of secrets and lies, impenetrable, and rolling toward his destruction.

It was enough to let him know she wasn't a fool.

It had to be.

* * *

Bobby knew what it was now.

He'd been figuring and figuring and figuring for days.

He knew what drew him to Nelda.

He'd thought it was the thrill of the hunt, and her interest in his mother, and his bizarre fascination with off-kilter personalities, and it was. But now he saw it was even more. When she'd handed him the papers about support groups. When she'd helped him with his jacket. When she'd smoothed the shoulders into place, aligning them just so. When she'd embroidered his academy photo. He got it. He realized what enraptured him about her. It was an appreciation for the lost feminine arts, the ones that modernity had obliterated in most women. Frailty of form. A selfless, giving spirit. Female attention to the details of her man's wardrobe. A time when how a husband presented in the world, was a reflection of a wife's good housekeeping. And, of course, those old fashioned handicrafts of knitting, embroidery and crochet; that were laughable to a woman climbing the corporate ladder. Nelda Carlson was a throwback. She was the docile little lady that every man secretly wanted, including him apparently. Women like her didn't exist anymore. Especially in Bobby's hard scrabble world.

He thought of Alex, trying so hard to be a man. He didn't blame her. He didn't judge (much). It was the life they had chosen. One that prized machismo. Alex was just trying to survive. He loved her. He _lusted_ after her. But she was definitely a woman of her time. Competitive, with an iron womb and an independence that ran deep into her soul.

He thought of Nelda. He thought of her standing meekly behind her man - the one that had divorced her. He thought of her naughty call in radio voice. She was a feast for thought. He wondered if all that subservience would become as boring as wallpaper, in a month or a year. Maybe not. She'd had enough fire in her belly for murder.

He felt guilty for thinking any of it.

But not too guilty anymore, because he would never really know Nelda.

He was about to do his job.

* * *

"_Don't you care about me at all? I know you do, I saw it." Nelda cried. Her face wet, her body straining for release._

"_I didn't mean for you to see it." Bobby whispered._

But had he cared that Alex had heard it? Because she had. She'd been there not 10 feet away. Alex replayed the words over and over, as she headed for the city limits, _again_. This time the passenger's seat was empty. But she wasn't alone. No. Jude burbled and gurgled from the back seat, and there was a suitcase in the trunk. Right after the take down of Nelda Carlson, she'd gone home and quietly packed. She hadn't said a word to Bobby. Hadn't seen him. She didn't want him to be a factor in any decisions she made. He was bad for her. She told exactly 3 people she was leaving, Deakins, Liz and her dad. The suitcase held enough clothes and supplies to last them indefinitely.

Her cell phone was a steady chorus of rings. When she tired of the noise she turned it off. Let _him_ wonder. Let _him_ pick up the pieces for once. She didn't care if it was cruel. And she didn't care if it was illegal to just leave with a child. Alex was her own law again, and restoring her equilibrium felt fucking good.

Her only other companion on this journey was irony.

Because she was back on _this_ road, the road that had started (or maybe just hardened) all their troubles.

Alex edged the car toward Ithaca, and then past it, and she kept on going.


	34. Chapter 34

Dating a cop was hell.

She couldn't use her credit cards. He could pull the statements.

She could use her cell. He could check the LUDs.

So Alex was living on a burner phone, a wad of bills - mostly Andrew Jackson's (they were easy to spend and very inconspicuous) and heaps of righteous anger.

* * *

Dating a cop was hell.

She hadn't used her credit cards.

She hadn't used her cell.

She had shut down his first resorts.

Still, Bobby's process was very methodical for a man screaming with silent panic. _**She'll come back, of course she'll come back, **_a kind fey voice soothed inside his head (an angel). He believed it. He wasn't worried about Alex's dedication to the job. The union of Alex and policing wasn't a choice. Being a cop was the marrow in her bones. He was worried that she was done _with him_. That she would give back his ring. That they would devolve to talk of new partners. That she would kick him out of the apartment.

Alex wasn't easy.

He both loved and loathed the challenge she presented. _This_ was why his eye had wandered. Alex drove him nuts. Was it wrong to dream of simplicity? To dream of life with an easy woman? _**A double murderer is easy? Get your head checked **_a scrappy voice growled (a devil). Whatever his motivations now Bobby was alone to think about what he'd done. Alex and Jude were gone.

This is the story of their separation.

* * *

The Lingard case had been a tipping point. It had instigated a change in post-case behaviour. Both Goren and Eames agreeing that takedowns were hell. And that they might kill each other afterwards (an unacceptable outcome). So they composed their own relationship constitution. They agreed to space. They agreed that the time post-arrest was a judgement free zone. They agreed to mutual leniency. What providence for Nelda Carlson's case. What providence that Bobby had permission to _run_ from Barry's apartment and not look back. His legs were spurred by shame. He wished he could burn his words in the ether, or spin the world backwards, and reset everything to the time before he'd opened his stupid mouth.

_**I didn't mean for you to see it. **_

_**I didn't mean for you to see it. **_

_**I didn't mean for you to see it. **_

He gripped his skull to stop the echo. A big guy, in a suit, doing that, on the subway? Let's just say he got a lot of looks and a wide berth. There was only one solution Goren knew for mental agony. He'd gone straight from the arrest to Hannigan's Pub. He'd ordered a Chimay, high proof Belgium beer, and guzzled half a pint in one go. He looked deep into the muddy brew with it's perfect foamy head. He tilted the novelty glass and caught his sad reflection in it. Those trappist monks had it figured out. Brewing ale in the Belgian countryside. A bunch of guys, wrapped in prayer, and reflection. Dedicating themselves to a quality beverage, social good and tithing.

Nothing like his dishonourable imbibing.

He sat on a lonely leather stool at the bar. He banged the wood _'barkeep another'._ Soon the hoppy richness of the heavenly drink began to drown out life. Him, Alex, Jude, all gone. Then he went to work on Nelda. He took a good long guzzle. All takedowns were hard. There was a suspension of time and space, before the perp - and their disparate personalities - merged into a frail human monster. Bulging eyes and wretched emotion. It was sickening and saddening at once, like watching the creature Frankenstein. For Bobby that was the hardest part to drown. But he was dedicated, and soon Nelda was gone too.

After his 5th beer he'd settled up and caught a cab home. He unlocked the door to their apartment and tiptoed (stumbled) in. He had really thought that he was going to wake Alex and Jude. He had really been idiotic enough to believe that he could betray her, and then curl up against her warm body in bed. He eased, gingerly, under the duvet and quilt. Even drunk, he sensed the flat energy of empty sheets.

He got up and tripped down the hall in tighty whities, to the nursery. No Jude. With a racing heart he started flipping on lights, scouring flat surfaces for a note, for something. There was nothing. He got on his cell and dialed her number until the ringing became a meaningless drone in his ear. He pulled open drawers and closets, and that was when he noticed that Jude's second dresser drawer was cleaned out. And that there was a conspicuously bare spot where the large red suitcase usually lived.

By then he was beside himself, breathing hard. Julia and Jack, that had to be where she'd gone. It seemed cruel to wake them, but he had to. He dialled. Their groggy, confused voices told him all he needed to know. Nothing. So he called Alex, again and again and again.

Where would she go?

Cops weren't known for their big rolodexes. Cops knew other cops (and lawyers, and admin) and none of them very well. Alex had exactly 2 girlfriends and (like him with Lewis) he knew she hadn't seen either in months. The clock blinked 11:56pm. Was it too late to call Janice and Eve? He would surely make a fool of himself. And he would expose the depths his and Alex's secret relationship, so he held off.

He slept a little (and worried a lot) and then dragged into work. Her empty seat was a slap in the face. He gnawed on the nail of his middle finger and waited three quarters of an hour for her. _**She isn't coming.**_ He looked around a little wildly, as if Alex might pop out from behind a filing cabinet, or from behind Donavon (he always kept one eye on that guy). But she didn't. He thought he heard the click of her heels. It was just Sherry. He glanced at Deakins office. He could see strips of his captain through the narrowed slats of the aluminum blinds. He couldn't take it anymore. He had to ask. And anyway, it was good right? That he didn't know where Eames was? It added some authenticity to their lie. He tapped on the door. Deakins crooked an index finger his way.

"Did Eames call in sick?" Goren rushed out, barreling in, and pacing the floor.

"She didn't tell you?"

"What?" His heart skipped.

"She took a leave. Said she needed to clear her head. Said you would finish up the paper."

"_A leave?_ How long?"

"Open ended. I suggested a week or two. I assumed she told you." Jimmy leaned back and tented his fingers. Goren could see the older cop's mind working. Deakins was still a detective under all of those promotions.

The captain was thinking that he hadn't seen this level of communication breakdown, in this duo, since the early days. Back then, he'd speculated it was some unresolved sexual tension. Now he knew that that tension had been resolved. He also knew that they were playing house. He knew a lot of things that he would never tell. "It was hard to let her go, we're swamped," Deakins gestured at the piles of files, sitting as high as the knot of his tie.

"You just let her go." Goren echoed trying not to sound forlorn.

"Why not? You're between cases." He smiled a little. "And you two have the Midas touch. If you had a backlog, it would have been another issue, but you don't…"

"I know." Goren frowned. "But she… sh-she didn't tell me... And I don't usually close out alone and…"

"You'll figure it out, she always does." Deakins said dismissively, and to Goren the words felt like an indictment. He flopped down into the guest chair, pensive and uninvited. Did he usually leave Eames with the paperwork? Was this another bit of poetic justice? He flipped back in his mind. And right there under his superior's watchful eye, Goren became cognizant of a blindspot. Deakins was right. He often took a day after a big solve. Mostly because of the throbbing headache, that followed a night of drinking. And he got away with it too, because he thought he was the brains of the operation. _How pompous._ He crossed and uncrossed his legs, shifting from side to side. He did lean on Eames, _hard._ Worse, he hadn't noticed his own pattern. _**Yeah because you're selfish **_his shoulder devil spat.

Deakins seemed to echo the sentiment, "You must have noticed how tired she seemed. She looked like she'd lost her best friend and her dog all in the same week."

"I noticed." He hadn't.

"She'll be back soon." Deakins soothed.

"Do you have a number? Her cell seems to be off."

"I do."

"Can I have it?"

"No." Jimmy said, looking back down at his work. That stung. Why was the captain punishing him too? Why did everyone seem to hate him? _**Because you hate yourself right now, the world can't give you anything else, **_that from his angel, so sage advice. Deakins looked up. "The number she gave me, is in case of emergency only. I can't break the glass without cause."

* * *

In the twilight of the work day, Bobby stepped into the break room, worked up some courage (regular, not dutch) and called Liz. His balls couldn't risk a trip to Staten Island. If anyone would tear them off, it was _that_ woman. She scared him.

"I don't know where Alex is." Liz said, voice clipped.

"She must have told you something." He begged.

"Yeah, that she wanted to get away from you asshole."

That rocked him back on his heels. Apparently Liz didn't care that they shared a nanny, or would be breaking bread at family dinners. She was vicious.

"I can explain." He said and he couldn't believe those words had come out of his mouth. He _never_ explained. Not to anyone. _**That's why you're in this mess.**_ He didn't care what Liz thought, did he? Liz would never understand all the moving parts, the lithe subtle dance he and Alex did each day at work. Befriending suspects, ingratiating themselves with murderers, probing psyches, all of it overlayed by protocol. Liz was simple and _normal_.

"Save it." She barked. "I know who you are. Tall, dark, reasonably good looking and totally messed up. My sister has it bad for you. She's a giver and you're a taker. You don't have any problem taking what you want, do you? Imposing on our good natures?"

Bobby gritted his teeth and stayed quiet.

"It looks like Alex is finally tired of your crap." She spoke with authority. His panic ratcheted up tenfold. The shrew's words resonated. He didn't want them to, but they did. He had treated Alex badly. He couldn't help himself. Liz was right he was fucked up. Nelda was on suicide watch at Rikers. Bobby knew that because he'd checked. In the middle of searching for Alex, because he was _FUCKED UP. _Had Alex confided everything to Liz? Had she cried on her sister's shoulder? His gut leaked acid up his throat. _**That's my job! I'm what she needs.**_ Had she told Liz about them? About their secret yearnings and dependencies and dysfunctions? He imagined Liz laughing at him as she stirred her cauldron.

It hurt. It hurt more then anything.

To Bobby, his relationship with Alex was _so_ intricate. They were a work of exquisite exterrestrial care and craftsmanship. Earthly hands couldn't have made what they had, the life they had created. It balanced on the head of a pin. They were synchronicity, and fate, and symbiosis and divinity all balled up together, all the things men struggled to grasp and never would. It hurt to think of someone like Liz knowing anything about it. Bumbling to grasp their special two.

"Thanks for your help." He said sarcastically into the phone.

"Anytime." The line went dead.

* * *

Jokes about Thoreau suddenly weren't that far off the mark. Alex was alone up here, just south of the wishbone of Keuka Lake, in the heart Finger Lakes region. She felt isolated, even with a slew of neighbours clearly visible along the curve of the shoreline. It was a jolt to the system to see the vast expanse of blue sky, to hear the birds, to feel the tepid greige water ripple onto her hand, and to feel a great whoosh as a family of elms shimmied in the breeze. It was quite a beautiful little spot actually. Every cottage on the round was painted a different colour. From her small front window she could see white, pale yellow, seafoam_**,**_ burnt orange stain, and barn door red. None of it was garish. On the contrary it was nice to see such pride of ownership.

The city was varying shades of dingy. And the city always felt impenetrably done. Not that empty lots didn't spring high rises, not that gentrification didn't reface entire communities, it did. It was just that change in the city was a superhuman feat. It required committees and by-laws, enormous investments, enormous machines and enormous amounts of manpower. In this place, all you needed was a trowel, a rake, a wheelbarrow and a pair of old jeans, to completely rock the landscape. You could plant every hue in the rainbow and then seed enough to nourish a family in perpetuity. To Alex there was something hopeful about that.

Standing on the screened porch, Alex sipped her coffee slowly. The sweet burn of each mouthful was heavy with comfort and nostalgia. Her vigilant cop eyes watched hoards of nothing go by for hours. For the first day she had wanted to climb out of her skin. It had been the worst kind of detox. She'd longed for a siren, or car alarm, or a scream, anything. But not anymore. She had consciously decided to stop being a woman divided. She had decided to start savouring this found time with her son. Alex realized, that she had longed for this time away. She realized, while driving northward, that this 'vacation' had been inevitable - Bobby's bad behaviour notwithstanding. She contemplated that. It was a little chicken and the egg. Had the untenable situation (of work and secrets and stress and wandering eyes) created this estrangement? Or had a need for this moment of peace and solitude orchestrated the rift? She shrugged, she would never know.

Alex moved back inside the small home. She went straight to the little red travel cot, and crouched low. She let her hand run over her child's back. She felt the wrinkled rouching of his small blue shirt under her fingertips. He was napping, but she couldn't resist picking him up and tucking him into the crook of her neck. He wriggled a little, and then settled into the safety of his mother.

She walked over to the couch, a slightly saggy slipcovered thing, and sank onto it. Then she lay down, with her head on the armrest and Jude draped over her. She closed her eyes. She felt decadent. A nap, at 2 o'clock in the afternoon? His hair tickled her nose. These two lovebirds had a date today, to sleep, to play on the floor, to crawl around the front yard, to taste his first ice cream, and to kiss, _a lot. _Alex wrapped her arms around that small sturdy lump of boy. She pressed warm lips to his warm forehead and wondered how a human being could mean so much to another. After all their travails, she felt blessed to know him.

And in that serenity she felt a release. She heard it turn over inside her, like the tumbler inside a lock. It took the form of tears. Before she knew it all the pent up crud ran out of her. Worry about the state of the world. Worry about the state her city. Worry about not being enough to help. Guilt at how inadequate she was as mother. Fear for Bobby and his self destructive patterns. Certainty that he would eventually float out of reach. And anger that she cared so much about any of it. All of that leaked out of the sides of her eyes, bumped across her ears, and drained into her hair. The tears were soundless, but the desperate contractions of her core bounced the baby, who rode his mother and kept on sleeping.

Her guard was finally down.

All the way down.

And then she fell into a deep restorative sleep.

* * *

"Jude." Alex singsonged. "Juju come to mommy." The baby had managed to rear back and plant all four limbs on the floor. He looked at his mother with dark determination. He hadn't crawled, not yet. And a fine thread of drool glinted off his perfect chin. "You can do it baby." She was the head cheerleader. The child inched forward, but his arms gave way and he did a faceplant on the tartan blanket. Alex braced for his tears, none came. Instead he tucked and rolled, 2 full revolutions, toward her. _This_ was still his comfort zone. "Tricky boy." Alex laughed crawling to him instead. "Teasing mommy, pretending to crawl." She tickled him, and 'little piggied' his toes, and got lost in his big brown gaze.

Just then there was a tap, tap, tap at the outer door. Alex's head shot up, and her hand fell to her hip. It was a reflex, she was always reaching for a phantom gun. She rolled her eyes. _**Is the world that bad?**_ _**Ya gonna shoot a stray tabby? **_She put Jude on that same hip and stepped out with bare feet onto the covered porch, unlatching the storm door.

"Hi neighbour." A gentle looking middle-aged man, with pale grey eyes, in a beige fisherman's hat greeted her warmly.

"Hi." She shook his hand.

"I thought I'd come over and say hello. I see you're getting a jump on the season too."

"We're only up for a week." Alex smiled.

"You buy the place from Marie and Todd?"

"No, no. It's just a loaner. Marie and my sister Elizabeth are great friends." _**Lifers in fact**_. "We're here," she shook Jude, "escaping the city."

"Oh of course." His eyes danced, and Alex saw that he was a kind sort of busy body. "I know Liz. Sometimes comes up here with Bill and Annabelle."

Alex nodded. He did know Liz. Probably better then her. This cottage had morphed over the years into a timeshare. Liz and Bill renting slots each summer from her high school friend Marie. For Alex it had been magic the way this trip had come together. Alex had squeezed blood from a stone (kindness from her sister). It was the first time she had felt Liz genuinely care about her wellbeing. It would seem there was a delicate shift afoot. Maybe because now the two women had the common ground of motherly love to draw on. Liz had taken a very critical glance at the bags under Alex's eyes, and suggested that she rent the place from Marie.

"She won't be using it." Liz assured. "I doubt it's even open for the summer yet. And it's far enough from this mess," She gestured vaguely, presumably meaning Alex's _whole_ life, "for you to get your shit together." Not quite nice, but there was a secret kindness there. Liz had even laid the groundwork by calling Marie.

In the end, Alex had agreed to 'open' the cottage and pay an off-season 'friends and family' rate for ten nights. Which was almost no money at all. It had ended up costing her the same as a single night at a 3 star Manhattan hotel (her only other option). Opening the cottage was a list of chores done annually at the start of the season. Alex had arrived on the last day of May, so perfect timing.

Alex found that the deal suited her just fine. She was happy to putter. To strap on Jude (or put him down) as she worked through her checklist of domestic duties. Foundation walls - check, Winter damage, nope - check, Swapping out batteries - check, Clearing the eaves - check, light yard work - check, cleaning from top to bottom (a modest task with 2 tiny bedrooms and one bath) -check, and taking pictures of rough spots to email the owners - check. It was nice. It was a very holistic way to be productive. Alex enjoyed it so much that she ribbed herself, _**H****ome Inspector might be a good fallback**_.

"My name is Bob by the way, and my wife is Annie." The neighbour was saying. Alex hid her reaction by looking down at Jude. Had she really come 250 miles just to be ambushed by another Robert? No. This man was truly _a Bob_, with all of it's normal implications. He fished and hunted and had a dog named Bo and he was a tax accountant and he lived most of the year on the Jersey shore. He was so sincere. He told her all of that in less then 10 minutes (with absolutely no expectation of reciprocation). Her 'Bob' (Bobby) wouldn't have said an eighth as much, or been half as truthful. Her Bobby was a cop to the marrow of his bones.

"Alexandra. Call me Alex and this is Jude." She lay a kiss on her boy's temple, thinking, _**Look ma! Look at me! I'm in the country, talking to regular people! And acting all regular!**_ Not a badge or bad guy in sight.

"Anyway, the wife and I would like to invite you over tomorrow night. We're having a little meet n' greet with two other cabins, a 7pm potluck, bring any dish you like. Something savoury I think, we're covered for dessert."

And while every ounce of her planted, A frame legs (cop habits died hard) said 'no', Alex felt her head nod 'yes'. And it was a good thing her head went rogue. Because this wasn't one of the five boroughs. And this sweet little boy was _not_ a dirty little secret. And she was not a detective here to trip them up and get a confession. Alex needed to reconnect with her humanity. She needed balance. So she said, "Sure. If you don't mind this little guy falling asleep in the middle of it."

Bob laughed heartily. "Not at all, they'll be a few youngsters around. We've all been there."

* * *

Bobby was tired of being alone. That was funny, since he'd been alone his whole life. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck anything that made believe that Alexandra Eames wasn't the woman for him. He had never missed _anything_ the way he missed his family, in the 3 days since it'd been torn asunder. His stomach was in agony. It felt like an ulcer. He wondered how he could have considered trading this, something so real, for a fleeting moment of intrigue.

And he wondered what ingredient made him and Alex so intense? How come even a hint of impropriety on his part had shaken their foundations? Why was she so hasty? Why had she taken off? Why hadn't she talked to him? He concluded that it all ran much deeper. Nelda had merely been a catalyst. This was about her fear for his life and sanity. This was about needing to be away from him to make a decision. This was about her desire for solitude. This was about her relationship with Jude.

He sat at his desk and mentally tore every detail of their relationship apart, while doodling her name in a spiral notebook. He sat so still, for so long, that he became a nuisance to the NYPD. He refused to start a new case. Deakins had suggested he take on Detective Locks as an interim partner, and with that suggestion Goren had gone from spacey to catatonic, with thoughts of Bishop dancing in his head. Finally Deakins had exploded. "If I want this much loafing, I'll go home to my teenagers! Goren leave! And don't come back without your partner!" He bellowed.

What the captain didn't realize was that his words had dropped the checkered flag. He had liberated Bobby's normative mind. Given him permission to find Alex and Jude. It was the juiciest kind of puzzle, one without boundaries.

_**First.**_ He levelled a threat (An invitation? A promise?) to Alex via email, "Tell me where you, are or I'll find you." As an afterthought he added. "I miss you. I love you."

_**Second.**_ He visited the phone company. With a badge and a dummied up warrant, and he secured Deakins personal cell phone records.

_**Third.**_ He methodically worked his way through a list of his bosses contacts. He called each number, including but not limited to: a department shrink, a bakery on the upper west side, a woman named Charlotte (that might be a mistress), and his daughter Amy's high school principal. And Goren didn't give up until he'd spoken with somebody at each and every number and thereby ascertained that it wasn't Alex. When it was over, he knew more about Jimmy Deakins then he'd ever cared to, but he had what he needed.

_**Fourth.**_ He contacted a hacker friend, one who told him it was "child's play" to crack Liz's personal Telus email account. Because Liz was hinky, _and mean_. And she deserved it. Any dirt on her was good dirt.

_**Fifth.**_ He hijacked a technical analyst from 1PP. Goren laid in wait at noon hour in front of a fast food joint. He zeroed in on Roy (that was his name, Roy) and blackmailed him into pinpointing the location of a number, a number in Deakins records, an incoming call received 4 days ago, with an automated voicemail message. A number he was certain belonged to Alex's burner.

_**And last but definitely not least.**_ He called someone named Marie Dodd. A number procured from his 'Liz hack' and pretended to be a clerk in Steuben County. He asked her for detailed information on her tenants and rents over the last calendar year, up to present. Holding her tax records (it was soooo easy to get tax records) he ad libbed a discussion about her 2003 property roll.

In about 25 hours Robert Goren, rogue detective, had tracked down the address of a mysterious cabin on the edge of the Finger Lakes. And when that feeling of certainty washed over him, that (psychic) sensation of the solution, he bought himself a one-way bus ticket.

* * *

Alex opened her laptop and logged into her email account. She got a very familiar sinking sensation. _**D****ammit Bobby. **_She wasn't sure if she was ready to see him. _**But brace for impact. **_She was being viewed down the scope of a rifle. Her head sitting squarely in the centre of that quartered circle. But she couldn't dwell on his mania, she had a practice casserole dish (full of potatoes au gratin) bubbling away in the oven, a roster of chores and a promise to have dinner with some nice _balanced_ people.

* * *

This was fun.

She was having fun.

Everyone was so nice. And truly in holiday mode, easy and happy. There was no pretension. No designer labels or furniture. The dining room was a mash up of goodwill, rejected and found, but somehow looked like a spread in Country Living magazine. The full round of introductions were made, some 9 adults and 3 children. And two large berry and rhubarb pies cooled in the kitchen window. The table was set. Foil and cling wrap were pulled off the food contributions, designated seats were taken (per handwritten namecards) and dishes were passed from hand to hand, up one side and down the other.

That moment came quickly, when a certain question got lobbed. "What do you do Alex?"

She got extra pleasure from the answer today. "I'm a cop. A detective with the NYPD." She said, looking into the eyes of Stewart from 'Daisy Cottage' (Alex learned soon after arriving that each residence had a cutesy name, not just a utilitarian number). Stewart, the only other single at the table, sat across the way, over low vase of tulips and a basket of bread rolls.

"Okay everyone," Her new acquaintance clinked his glass with a fork, fixing the attention of all the guests. "We have a winner: the coolest profession goes to..." He drum rolled on the tabletop. The place settings jiggled excitedly. Then he gestured toward Alex with a flourish. She actually blushed, as he told everyone. Predictably the first comment was,

"You're so small."

"I carry a big gun," And there were ruckus chuckles. The frenzy that ensued went sort of as follows:

"What does a detective do exactly?" _A lot of paperwork._

"Do you have a partner like on NYPD Blue?" _Uh huh, and he's got a face for TV._

"Have you ever shot anyone?" _A grim nod_.

"Have you been involved in any cases we've heard of?"

Alex indulged every inquiry. And not in a jaded city girl way either, in an open playful way. "Sure. We're more likely to have high profile cases. The department I work in is elite. Ever heard of Mark Dietrich or Lilly Carlyle?" There was a roar, a positively intense roar of recognition.

"Lilly Carlyle teen dream?" said Allyson of 'Pepper Pot Lodge.'

"Or nightmare depending on how you look at it." Alex quipped, taking a long draw on a glass of white wine. Everyone laughed again, hysterically, then attacked her with questions.

"Dietrich? The Yuppie Killer?

"Reservoir runner rapist…" She heard another voice chime in.

"My partner and I cleared the boys that were wrongly accused." Alex said.

"Oh I remember that. I remember both trials" Came a breathless awareness.

"We fixed the mistake, we didn't make it." Alex smiled, and thought _**I should sell tickets, **_because she could do no wrong. They all laughed and laughed and begged for more.

In the midst of it, Alex looked down, Jude was doing so well, no crying or fussing, perhaps it was having dinner on a porch jutted out over the lake, or the fairy lights strung haphazardly and twinkling all over the room, or just the sheer number of new faces to examine, but Alex felt quite certain he was loving this. Loving the diversity of the whole evening. He sat in his little booster seat, wringing and rolling the finger foods on his tray. And toggling his small round head back and forth. Soon the table before them was strewn with crispy, le creuset style dishes, and greasy plates, and almost everyone had leaned back to give their full tummy's room to deflate. It was warm too, unseasonably so for an early June evening in upstate New York. In short, perfection.

* * *

Later, Alex ambled back to the cottage feeling pleasantly tipsy. She was warm, across the expanse of her skin, right through her cuffed jeans and into her flip flopped toes. She tucked the tails of her cardigan around, both her, and Jude's slumbering form. She waded languidly through the ankle high grass in the side yard of their temporary home. She smiled at the memories of an evening well spent. She rounded the house and stopped dead. He was there. Her big, rain cloud of a partner, sat dwarfing the front steps of the cottage with his significant torso. She wasn't at all surprised. In fact he was right on schedule. They stared at each other for a full turn of the earth (at least it felt that way).

"Alex."

"Bobby."

She looked different here, soft and beautiful and casual and open. And she was holding his baby against her bosom, as if the child were; a bedroll and some mana and a few heirlooms on the exodus - basically everything precious she owned in the world.

"Where were you?" He asked.

"We were invited to dinner."

"By who?"

"Neighbours." She thought she saw a flicker of jealousy in his eye. He wisely hid it.

Alex moved to walk by him, but he caught her thigh and then her hips in both hands.

"Let go. I have to put him down."

"And I have to touch you."

"You have a lot of compulsions that aren't very healthy." She wrenched away. She made it into the black tranquil bedroom, she unstrapped her son and tucked him in. She braced against the wall and took a few deep breaths before going out. The high light of the living room made her squint. Bobby was poking around restlessly. He was lifting, looking, manipulating the contents of the space. She watched as he tested the laws of physics on the signed baseball that usually lived on the mantelpiece. She expected nothing less.

"What are you doing here Alex?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

He stared hard.

"Vacationing. We're vacationing."

"I think you forgot me."

"I'm positive I didn't." She crossed her arms. "How did you find me?"

"You want the full breakdown or the crib notes?" He asked.

"Actually, keep it to yourself."

"Plausible deniability." They said in unison, then laughed.

"I missed you." He said.

She walked over to the tiny kitchen, with it's bright blue peninsula. She ran the carafe under the tap, prepping for a pot of coffee. "You have too much of me. You're getting tired of me. And I'm getting tired of you."

He was behind her in an instant. "Don't say that."

"Maybe this," She gestured around, "is good. Maybe we need to live apart. Maybe we're too important to each other. Maybe you need more variety to be happy."

"Or, maybe I just need you." He knew what to say. He knew she liked being needed. He dropped his hands to either side of her, clutching the countertop, creating a hard shell at her back. Alex felt her resolve coming apart, a softening in her joints. His heat was making her bindings and glue all sticky.

"Maybe you need someone that understands your unique… family." She suggested.

"So it really is about my mother."

"It's not about her. It's about you _using her_ as a wedge. Maybe you need a nurse who knows _all the drugs_, or someone who's _just as crazy_." She taunted him.

He reached across her chest, grabbed the pot from her hand and slammed it down on the butcher block, _hard_. Then he took her shoulders and pushed her up against the wall. "Are you trying to make me angry Alex? Offend me? Get me to storm out? It isn't going to work."

"_We need time apart._" She growled.

"No, we need _more_ intimacy." He pressed against her, "We need to know everything. No secrets, no lies."

"Impossible." She whispered. But he was doing that thing he did, where he stroked her, and gazed at her, and made her feel like the centre of his universe. It was hard to think straight. "Did you sleep with her? With that nurse?"

"Nelda?" He barked out a laugh. "Please. I said she was empathetic not desirable. She was like a puppy, a psychopathic puppy."

"That's your kryptonite."

He smiled. "No, I was playing her."

Alex rolled her eyes. "You went to her house."

"For the case."

"No, you went for something else. Only you know exactly what it was."

Bobby felt as if her clear amber gaze could see into his soul. "Okay. You're right. I..." He hedged. Talking about the concept of honesty was one thing, _being_ honest another entirely.

"You don't want to tell me why you liked her." Alex stated. "You think it will hurt me."

"I… I…"

"Okay, let me take a stab." Alex pushed him away with both palms and locked her elbows. "She was nice. I'm mean. She was soft. I'm like pavement. She was feminine. I'm one of the guys. She's old fashioned. I'm a feminist. She cared about your mother. I'm the bitch that's trying to separate you." Bobby actually stumbled back a step, and braced on the lip of the sink, she was so astute. It was like she was inside him. But Alex wasn't done. "And you have this thing you do. You find comfort in insanity. Everyone is fleeing or disgusted and you zombie walk right up to it and give it a hug." She snorted.

"So… so... " He couldn't find any words, she had them all, she'd nailed it exquisitely.

"So nothing. It is what it is Bobby. You are who you are. _I _have to decide if it's enough for me. Why couldn't you leave well enough alone. Why couldn't you give me this time. I was coming back."

"You _wanted_ me to hunt you." She must have known, that leaving had constructed a puzzle that would be irresistible to him.

"Don't flatter yourself. I wanted to get away from you. You make me feel inadequate."

"Don't say that."

She pushed past him and out of the kitchen, coffee forgotten. "You need more then I can give you."

"_Don't say that._" He repeated louder.

"It's okay. _Really_. We have a child, we work _so_ _closely._ If we let the romantic part die, we'll still have each other." Getting her lips around that almost killed her. But she did. "I just can't keep up with your needs." That was exactly how she felt, like a membrane being stretched incredibly thin. "I'll give you back your ring."

He gripped his neck and grew darker. "I don't want my ring back. I want to marry you, right now! _Tonight_."

"What?!" She squinted, this was what an aneurysm felt like. **_Can you hear me?!_** "Be logical." She shouted from across a paradigm.

"I'm in love. There's no room for logic." He blitzed her. He wrapped his arms around her waist. Against her ear he whispered. "I have to be able to kiss you, hold you, feel you, _be inside you_. I can't have less than that." He wanted to devour her, there would be none of her left. "Kiss me." He whispered.

"Nothing is resolved." She turned her face away.

"Kiss me."

He always did this, made her weak and stupid. When she was with him didn't know herself. And yet, when she was with him she was completely authentic. Of course she kissed him. Of course she put her whole face up to his. She wasn't superwoman. _And God did he kiss her_. It was a full sex act just there in their mouths. Sinful and sloppy and sweet.

"I missed you." He growled it into her throat, and squeezed her sides hard as he said it. "Right here. I want you right here."

"You're nuts." She'd been gone 4 days. How could he have missed her this much? She could see the mania. Bi-polar, maybe?

"A little," He unbuttoned her denim. He took her hand and shaped it to his misshapen fly. "I'm about to explode." In an instant he had pushed her pants down and stepped on the crotch to free her legs.

"You always do this to me." She struggled with her own anger.

"Ditto." He slipped a finger inside her.

"_Bobby!" _

"_Alex_."

"Turn out the lights at least." She choked, the windows were big black unblinking eyes. "I just had dinner with these people. I don't want to be the after show."

He made a sound of annoyance and backhanded the lamp. It fell off the table and the bulb shattered, that was the kind of mood he was in. He pushed her down onto the couch and tore at his belt. Then he was on her, and in her. Their coupling sounded like relief and discomfort in stereo.

"How long have you been here? 10 minutes?" Alex panted, disgusted with herself. She'd had a plan, she was going to tell him off, and take his key, and _finally_ escape his hold on her. She'd managed to stand her ground for a whole 600 seconds. _**That'll teach him. **_

"Waited on the steps for… hour…" He gasped moving faster. She wrapped around him. She kissed him. She let him raise and lower her body like his own personal love toy.

"Why?" _**Why is it like this,**_ she meant.

"Because I love you. I _love_ you." He cupped her face, grinding his fingertips into the hollows of her cheeks. "I can't think straight for loving you."

"Then try showing it." She mumbled. He stopped abruptly and flipped them.

"No, _you_ show it." He strained for his pants on the floor. He held them by the cuff and shook violently. Scraps of paper, a stick of gum and his wallet rained down, along with a navy blue velveteen box. He snatched it up. He pulled out the 2 carat, oval, diamond solitare that had cost him 2 months salary, and shoved it roughly onto the ring finger of her left hand. "Remember this?! _Wear it_."

"I can't…"

"It's none of their fucking business who you love, who you marry." He grabbed her ass and flexed deeply in her. Alex hadn't worn it. Not ever. It was less about a fear of Deakins and more about a fear of the man between her thighs. What wouldn't she do for him? This wasn't an engagement ring, it was the 'one ring', forged in the fires of Mount Doom. She would be it's pathetic slave. As she considered all of it, true to type Alex worked, she shed her cardigan, then stripped off her tank top, then reached a thin nimble arm back and sprung her breasts free. She dragged that hard sharp stone across her nipples, growing more and more intoxicated by the weight of it on her finger. And by the fact that he wanted it there so badly.

"Is it real?"

"Are your tits made of glass?"

"Very funny."

"Of course it's real. Haven't you even looked at it?" He surged, punishing her with his penis. Alex held her hand up over her head, and the beautiful platinum circle glinted in the moonlight. It got her.

"You win. I'll wear it."

* * *

In the dark, on a strange bed, in a strange room that smelled of camphor and cedar and potpourri, he took her body again, crying, "Oh God Alex."

Sleeping babies be damned.

She grabbed his glutes to still his hips. Alex still had a list of demands. "We have to get hobbies. Separate hobbies."

"I like this hobby." He groaned moving inside her.

"I'm serious." She squeezed, a well timed Kegel.

"Right. Got it. Hobbies."

"And friends. It won't work if we don't have friends."

"Uh huh, friends." He curved low and bit her breasts.

"And you have to see a doctor about the sleeping. No more self-medicating."

"Yeah a doctor."

As contracts went, it was different.

But so were they.


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: I considered breaking this piece up into two (or three) separate chapters, and then I thought 'Naw, just let it stand as the longest chapter in fanfiction history' (not an actual fact). I can't go on this way, constantly increasing the length of my submissions, but this work is large, unbeta'd (FYI punctuation police)** **and mostly a joy to write, so that might be the reason I can't seem to control myself :) Oh well, like Goren I am completely untethered.**

* * *

**WANT**

"Not here."

"Uh huh right here." He countered. "Right here, right now."

She tugged away, hissing softly, "Are you insane?"

He shrugged.

She smiled.

This was the evolution of their commitment. A new stream of sexy inappropriate conversations. Bobby was trying to keep them fresh. He was trying to keep his stimulation high and his brain engaged. For him that meant a perverse, intense dedication to undoing Alex, whenever and wherever he could. Like right now, on the landing pad, outside the elevators, on the 11th floor of One Police Plaza.

Risky, risky.

There was a sharp ping and the metal door retracted. Bobby let his hand drop, and he looked looked down at the weft of his athletic top like it was the holy grail. Detective Lopez disembarked. The man smiled absently at both of them and kept walking.

"_Come on._" Bobby tried again, letting his fingertips tempt her elbow.

Alex shook her head violently and mouthed, "NO!" She had to be stern, she was dealing with a subversive, an agitator. _**And secretly loving every minute of it.**_ He was a new man. _Devoted_. She could _feel_ him trying to make up for his transgressions. A sensation not unlike having her hair rubbed against the grain. It was entangling and chaotic and it gave her goose pimples. He could be beautiful, endearing, and pathetic all at once - all doe eyes and pure(ified) intentions. And Alex was inclined to forgive him, because at his root, that fibrous complicated ball, Bobby was good. And when he tapped into that goodness it was impossible to stay mad at him.

Moments before that sensual tug of war with Alex, Bobby had burst through the grey steel fire doors, panting and sweaty from ascending 8 floors (twice) to Major Case. Stair running, in the cavernous tunnels that traversed skeleton of One Police Plaza, were a large component of his workout. He'd once had a treadmill, a big expensive thing that beeped, and tweeted, and blinked, and cradled his magazines, and stroked his ego; writing things like 'great work' on its square digital display, and spurring him on in a stilted female voice. For years he'd treated that treadmill like a prized piece of furniture (in true bachelor style) opting out of tables and chairs. He'd plunked all three hundred pounds of it down in the centre of his living room, perpendicular to the couch. Then later he'd moved it to his bedroom. Now he had crib, and a baby, and a fiancé that liked conventional furniture. _**Go figure.**_ The phases of life were so ephemeral.

One Police Plaza had a gym. He contented himself with it occasionally. It was the right price (free), it was the right distance (8 storeys down). But it was also had a very public-sector aesthetic. It was a no-frills approach to fitness, and all that _utilitarianism_ was often a bridge too far after a gruelling shift. So Bobby also had a new, soulful, modern, colourful, complementary gym in Queens. It had a roster of classes (that he never attended) and it was a psychedelic orgy, with lots of ladies - and their lumps - encased in tight patterned spandex. Also, it was walking distance from their new apartment. He did vaguely worry that all these fitness options smacked a little of overcompensation, but better over then under, right?

"Good workout?" Alex murmured from their desks, in the almost empty bullpen.

"You're still here." He said surprised. They made sure never to leave or arrive together.

"Yeah… But not for long." She began gathering her things, bending low and reaching for a pair of sneakers under the desk. He watched her intently from behind. Then she turned and mouthed 'see you at home' and walked away.

Maybe it was her easy dismissal that got him. Maybe it was a little conceit on his part. Whatever the case, something compelled him to follow, and waylay her at the elevators. He looked around furtively, then took her arm. With a laryngitis voice, he tried to convince her to follow him into the locker rooms.

"Not here."

"Uh huh right here." He countered. "Right here, right now."

She tugged away, hissing softly, "Are you insane?"

He shrugged.

She smiled. Then she cleared a hasty path for Detective Lopez.

"Too risky." She continued.

"_Come on._ No cameras in there."

"Someone might hear."

"Scream into my chest."

She punched him, because sometimes she did scream. "Go see if anyone's in there." She said at last. Alex was nothing if not pragmatic in her rule breaking. But she was also weak. He was standing before her, a sweaty, ripped, giant. His arms had the fresh bulge of recent barbell abuse. He was wearing a tank top, and he looked healthy again. He'd also gone to the doctor, for a physical and a Rorschach test. At least that was how he described the questions they'd made him answer, before prescribing different sleeping pills. He'd also stepped up his trips to the gym _and_ found a racquetball partner.

_"Two birds one stone. A hobby and a friend." _He'd said smugly. Bobby was taking her coital cottage demands very seriously. It meant a lot to her.

"All clear." He stuck his head around the corner, beckoning her into the locker room. _**Famous last words**_, Alex thought. She'd told Bobby her feelings. Her terror that his antics would get them fired. She'd told him that what he called _fun_, she called impending suspension. And he'd had the gall to sing: you say tomato, I say to_ma_to.

Alex humphed. "You do realize they decided to call the whole thing off."

"Incorrect. Listen to the arc of the song. In the end they 'call the calling off, off.' She can't resist him." More Goren smugness.

"It's a duet smartypants. He can't resist her either."

Wasn't that the truth.

And here she was again, acquiescing to his whims. Crossing the threshold into that room felt like leaping the boundary of common sense. With a subtle all-points sweep of the eyes, she darted into the 'men's only' zone. Then she stood still for a beat, and looked around. There were grey lockers, galvanized metal benches, grey cinder block walls, all lit by fluorescent tubes. "I see this place is as miserable and boring as the ladies version."

"Not quite. You have pink locker doors."

"Oh do we? Spend a lot of time in the ladies locker room?" For Alex, it burned that she wasn't his first 1PP tryst. _**Fucking Denise Atkins.**_

He read her face like it was grafted onto a serial killer. "I went in there to take a piss. That's it."

"Sure Don Juan."

He grabbed her hand, pulled her into a small cubicle, and drew the shower curtain. "I like you all jealous." He kissed her neck.

"Oh yeah? Then you'll love me homicidal."

"Jealous homicidal rage?" He seemed dazed by the delicious concept.

"Yeah. I'll go postal on all your old girlfriends in HR."

He smirked. "You're funny."

"I'm here all week."

Then her smartass (and the rest of her) were sandwiched between the wall and his body. Then his tongue was in her mouth. He drew slow soft circles and poked her pliant cheeks with that moist snake. The uptick in his passion was obvious.

"Do you think you have it in you?" He asked. "Lethal force?"

"You know I do." She whispered. She'd killed a man. He'd been there. He freaked her out when he did this. When he was drawn to the dark stuff.

"That was on the job. I mean as a civilian, in our living room." He asked, stretching her elastic earlobe with his lips.

"Of course." Alex reared back and met his eyes. "Of course, I would do whatever it took." _**Right answer**_ she thought, their lips could barely contain his enthusiasm. "Why do you like that?"

"I don't know."

She dodged left. "Not good enough."

"Something about all or nothing. Something about a woman losing it a little. Something about a pact or a blood oath."

"Marriage is a normal oath. Marriage is the legal way to have that."

"That's why we're getting married." He said. But she wondered if it was enough. If a piece of paper notarized by a justice of the peace was edgy enough for a lifetime with a man like this. Old feelings of inadequacy rose in her again. But he refused to let her think too hard. He tugged her turquoise wool sweater roughly over her head, and popped the clip on her bra like an old pro.

He stepped back to appreciate the fruits of his effort. Two round ripe sacks of peachy flesh, ready for picking. Dusky engorged nipples, sat hard and high, like proud pits. He would never get tired of this view. He told her as much, in street thug vernacular. "Fucking gorgeous."

Set against the stark white subway tile the way she was, all ruffled and tousled, it put him in mind of a mug shot, an x-rated mugshot. He took a bow, setting his mouth in line with the object of his affection. He licked her chest until it glistened with his adoration. Then he was gone. He dropped to his knees and pressed his nose to the apex of her thighs. He took a long draw on the seam of her jeans.

"_Bobby!_" She yelped then remembered where she was. "_Bobby!" _She whispered. A creeping heat in her cheeks.

"Shhhhh." He murmured, against the fabric. "Aphrodisiac. Honey and sea and salt. You're perfect. A match to my..."

"Get up here, you're gross."

"I'm a man." He stood, and growled, and hefted her high, twining his forearms under the meat of her denim bum.

"Straight out of the stone ages." She laughed gripping his shoulders. He grunted (presumably some cave language) and then pillaged her breasts some more.

"Put me down." She breathed, ducking, she could see over the top of the stall.

He obeyed.

"Take this off." She whispered, pushing at his shirt.

He obeyed again.

She buried her nose in that a wiry loamy jungle, she tugged it with her teeth. His "Ow" was very gratifying. He loved to vex her, but she rarely got to set him on edge. To those ends, she flared her lips and sucked the flavour off his collarbone like a lollipop. Then she plunged her hands inside his track-pants and rubbed his ass like a magic lamp. "Cold hands." He squawked twitching under her fingers. "And not above the collar. I'm a professional"

Just then, the door creaked open and heavy footsteps moved in their direction. They froze.

"Goren! Goren, you in here?"

"What?!" He barked squeezing Alex, and turning reflexively to the corner to shield her. "I'm about to shower."

"Deakins called, you got one. He's at home if you need more dets. _And find Eames_." The footsteps receded and the door clicked shut.

"Nooooooooo..." She moaned, and he felt all the joy drain out of her. They'd been back from their northern adventure for 48 hours. They'd already put in two full days. Both ten hour shifts. Both packed with mind numbing trial work. They had barely seen Jude today, and they were being thrown at the lion again. _This was the job._ That knew that. They knew they needed to find that selfless rhythm again. But the agony of separation was now heightened by withdrawal. By the fresh memory of late mornings, and lazy afternoons, and easy togetherness.

Alex felt ready to give it all up. She had always loved being a cop. Moreover she had _needed_ it. Now she hated it. Now she would strangle the stupid soul sucker dead if she could. She broke in front of him. She let herself be naked and vulnerable. Heavy water pooled on her lower lid, magnifying her misery. "Bobby I don't think I can do this anymore." Her voice quivered.

"It's okay.

"It not okay."

"It's okay."

"It's…"

"It's okay," They were the only words he had.

She sighed and her shoulders slumped.

"I know what to do." He said softly.

That response surprised her. She was so used to calling out in the dark and hearing only silence. Not this time. He stepped up. And it occurred to her that maybe she needed to get out of his way more. He looked so firm in his resolve. He was definitely going to do _something_. Comfort and discomfit made a home in her belly at once. Bobby wasn't linear. He thought rules were quaint. Bobby wasn't the the fixer, she was.

"What are you gonna..."

'Don't worry." He massaged the words into her swollen lips and sad face. "Let's not rush. The DB will still be dead in an hour or two." She nodded and they stripped bare, balling their clothes up and shoving them into the shampoo niche. He turned the taps and drowned them both in warm liquid amnesia.

There wasn't much movement in this shower. The droplets could barely eke out a space between them. The illicit lure of 'right here, right now,' in a cold grey locker room, yielded to the most tender bit of lovemaking they had ever experienced. They sunk to the tiled floor, the vee of his legs flanking the drain, his rear absorbing the grout grid beneath them. She straddled him, layered on his lap - pale soft thighs over hairy leathery ones - and her vulva snug around his sex. Her legs suddenly seemed so long, wrapped all around him and doubled back, as they were.

"I love you." He told her, sinking his fingers into the slick wet clumps of her hair.

"Do you?" She loved him, she knew that. Her blinding love for him often disserviced herself.

"You doubt it?" Then he answered for her. He invited Liz's animus into their special two again. "Of course you do, because I'm an asshole." White steam packed in around them, then it rose up and poured over the curtain rod, like a scene from a pornographic film noir. "I'm sorry. I've never been in love before."

She pressed her forehead to his and whispered, "You aren't. You aren't an asshole. You're just complicated. I think... I think I asked for you. I think my life was too simple."

He shaped his hand to the dimple of her back. He moved her just enough to promise pleasure. "I do love you. I want to _be_ you. You see the world so honestly. I wish I could do that."

Alex felt faint with his praise, for she had respected him long before she'd loved him. And his words helped her make a leap across the gap. The vast gap that he always seemed to be on the other side of. She was starting to grasp his contradiction. How his mind both defined him and fought him. How it attacked the puzzle, but also threw bullshit and baggage all over the path. And these revelations were cotton handcuffs for her. The world felt irrelevant. Their troubles felt transient. Sitting in the fog _knowing_ Robert Goren seemed worth any kind of pain he could inflict.

She bore down, just as he surged.

They cancelled each other out in a desperation to be close.

And an institutional rain fell heavy on their skin.

* * *

He _did_ take care of her.

He went to Deakins three days later and said the pace was too much for them.

"We need more time off." Bobby looked the captain dead in the eye, and didn't give a shit that it was nervy, or that it sounded like he was at the helm of a couple. Alex had loved her rural vacation, and he had loved it with her; bumming around the cottage, and digging his hands into the arable wormy earth beside her. He had loved bumping in the kitchen and cooking five ingredient gourmet meals. He had loved the weight of his sleeping boy as they swayed on the porch loveseat. He'd loved seeing her ass in cutoff jeans, and holding her (without urgency) at night. It'd been a dream. Now they were back, and she was worn and tearful already.

"Time off? On top of your time off?" Deakins quipped "Nice work if you can get it."

"Well, the truth is we've _been_ working, like dogs, for years. Who else in this squad has caught 79 files and closed 77 of them?"

Deakins shifted a bit under the detective's even, confident stare. Goren was normally a 'squirmy Sally' this much certainty in him was overwhelming. It compelled honesty.

"No one else." The top cop admitted. His second stringers were Jefferies and Hodges with 40 in the bag (out of a total 80) and they'd been together 18 months longer than Goren and Eames. It baffled. If Deakins believed in magic...

"Good. So the time off?"

"What're you thinking?" Jimmy wondered at the conspicuous absence of feminine energy in the room. He wondered at this alpha display of protectiveness, from a beta personality. But he'd learned to tread softly, and count his blessings. Anyway, he didn't need to be told tall tales. Captain Deakins had a bead on the comings and goings in MCS. His eyes took in _everything_. He'd seen the pale compressed ring of flesh, on the third finger of Eames' left hand. He'd seen her steal away at lunch with a cooler bag, grimacing as she passed a soothing hand over a sore breast. Jimmy usually didn't speculate about his detective's mammaries - very few had them. And those with breasts could thank the almighty jelly donut. But with Eames, it was definitely lactation. Jimmy was getting a bit long in the tooth, but he still had three kids of his own, he remembered it well. Eames was pumping, he knew she was. She was covering, because she was very gender conscious, but he supposed it wasn't a secret really. They all knew she'd had a baby. This captain was just surprised that she hadn't given up that, demanding, altruistic part of the surrogacy months ago. There was _a lot_ more to this story.

Goren and Eames were a riddle. One he'd best not solve.

Plausible deniability.

"We want 3 weeks reduced hours." Goren launched.

"_Well shit!_ You don't ask for much."

"We'll be in. We just want the joys of 9 to 5 for a while. And weekends off. And Monday's too." He rushed out, before his moxie leaked onto the floor.

"No cases, and 9 to 5, and three, three day weekends? Those aren't detective hours. You wanna switch to light janitorial? Maybe part time reception?"

"No. We want our lives back." Goren didn't flinch.

"I don't see how it'll work..." Deakins leaned back deeply and looked at the pits on the acoustic drop ceiling.

"Well, we have an alternative." Goren said coolly. "Special ops. Counterterrorism. It's a pretty sweet deal, better hours, better pay and they want a team."

Deakins could only laugh. It sounded like a bitter mirthless cough. "Fucking Samson, that son of a bitch."

"Exactly. They're looking for the best, to work Kelly's task force. Eames and I got pinned for the Dornan case remember? We already have a record of excellence in counterterrorism."

Goren wasn't bluffing, and Deakins knew it. He was being poached. Jimmy had a bi-weekly poker game with the beer bellied, scotch swilling, department heads. Kind of a 'masters of the universe' thing. Captain Samson had tried to win Goren and Eames on a hand of poker. Luckily the head of Counterterrorism couldn't play for shit, because that night Jimmy'd had a bellyful of booze and corn chips, and he'd felt edgy enough to bet the farm.

"How could I forget." He answered Goren. Every case at Major Case was big. The name was very apropos. But the stakes had never been higher than the Dornan case. Never. "Look, I'm going to level with you. I've got my eye on someone to help lighten the load around here. But he has to be green lighted. And I have to get budget approval. And he has to serve his sentence first…"

"Sentence?!"

"Poor choice of words. Disciplinary. You're familiar with that concept." Deakins ribbed.

Goren's lips cracked, not quite a smile. "There's nothing in my jacket."

Deakins laugh was robust. "You have a couple of fairy godmothers cleaning up your messes." Clearly he meant Eames and himself.

"This guy is good?"

"Too early to start looking at his stats. He's a hothead, I know that. That's how I found him. He's radioactive right now, but that kind of fire, it works here." Deakins was always looking for a maverick. MCS was basically the island of misfit toys.

"Who is he?" Goren asked.

"Yeah right. So you can dissect him? It's too soon. it's all speculation. 8 months maybe? Hang on til then."

Goren scoffed. _**8 months?**_ "Incentivize us."

"Fine. _Fine._ Wrap this photographer one and take a few weeks."

Goren's eyes widened, for a second his heart stopped beating. For a second he thought he'd gotten them suspended. _**Three weeks! **_The success was beyond his wildest expectations. In classic negotiation style, he'd asked for 3 weeks _light duty,_ to get 1. Now they were being given three off_, free and clear._ On the heels of sunny good fortune, he had a gripping fear. He wouldn't have a fiancé at the end of three weeks. He would torture Alex with violent understimulation.

Once, years ago he'd been on an injury leave from Narcotics. He'd been bed bound, his left leg elevated on a stack of pillows day after day. Then one morning (after sticking a barbecue fork down the gap in his cast for the umpteenth time) he'd hatched a ridiculous experiment. He'd hobbled over to his medicine cabinet. Then called the superintendent to 'borrow' a few less common items. He'd gotten it in mind to recreate a meth lab. _**For work of course.**_ To understand the criminal chemist, _**obviously. **_Long story short, some of his substitutions had been unstable, and he'd almost burned the apartment building down. The fire department had not been impressed, neither had the boys at the 6-6. He rubbed his neck, and clenched his jaw, and wondered how to delicately backtrack.

"Don't worry, it's a win win." Jimmy had a plan.

"How do you figure?"

"I'm going to fax and/or Fedex you some dead case files."

"Cold?"

Deakins shook his head, "No, that's the point, they're about to slip out of our purview, and get chalked up as losses for this annum."

_**Ahhhh**_. Now Bobby got it. This 'gift' was about Deakins; his numbers, his funding, his legacy.

"I want you and Eames to use fresh eyes. Look for the patterns, the idiosyncrasies, anything mortals might have missed. Roll play, hunt typos, whatever, I don't care, just crack 'em."

"You want us _in_ to do this?"

"If you find something sure, otherwise, as you wish. Go back to that cottage, go to Starbucks, lie in bed. Wherever your minds work best."

* * *

Alex was reserved when she heard the news. She worried a lip and said."What bridges did you burn?"

"I resent that." He huffed. She walked over and grabbed his chin to look him in the eye. "_I swear!_ Deakins' exact words were 'It's a win win.'"

"How the hell did you manage that? Threats?"

"Ha. Funny." There had been some of those. "Think of it less as a vacation, more as a consultancy."

"Okay..." She drew the word out, waiting for more.

"We don't have to go in, _we can_, but we don't have to. We just have to help MCS raise their solve rate."

She scoffed. "Deakins thinks we're wizards."

"Better a wizard then a fat, surly, overworked cop." He said.

She smiled, "You pulled it off. I'm gonna call you Merlin."

"I like it, he's old school. I'll call you Gandalf."

"At least I'm not a witch."

"I'm excited about this." He said. She saw that he was. He looked happy. "It's like work without the crappy bondage."

"So the cap is going to send a pile of cases?"

"Uh huh, he wanted to stagger them. He wanted to send them one at a time. I told him that they were going to interlock. And that we were going to leverage one against the others." He said. He was gratified when she nodded (like he made sense or something). Because his babble was a concerto to her. She was on the inside. Alex knew that the details of a case did not exist in isolation. They had never solved one without extrapolation. Every case was, at it's root, a human story, and human stories might have an assortment of material conditions, but they all had blandly similar motivations.

And so began Project X (or Project XY-XX). It was glorious. It was free form, and bohemian, and hedonistic, and a little delirious. They lay on their rumpled bed in their underwear with Jude sound asleep on his tummy beside them. There were manila envelopes stacked a foot high in mustard hanks. Bankers boxes peered over the edge of the bed, and created makeshift tables for cold mugs of coffee, and plates dusted with crumbs. Alex absently stroked her son's hair and looked up from her forms.

"You know, this is a _good_ kid." She said.

"_So good._" Bobby fingered Jude's small hand.

"I think he got the best of us. He's calm, he's happy, he's loving and he knows when to make an exit." Like now. Jude had been up since 6am (old habits died hard). He'd eaten and screeched and terrorized the house for a handful of hours, then conked out naturally beside his parents, with a bellyful of breastmilk.

"Eureka." Goren gestured at the file on his lap. "Here it is." He sounded triumphant. She got up on all fours and peered down. "Sequential time stamps. Perfectly sequential." Then he pointed to the date. "Daylight saving time."

"The extra hour Cudlaw needed." She laughed. "Why didn't the clock adjust automatically. It's part of a network, all the other ATMs did?"

"Good question. We'd have to get a tech in there to look at tampering."

"I have something too." Alex said. "Take a look..."

His hand stilled her. "Wait..."

"What?"

"Wait. Just like that. Don't move a muscle."

"Why?" She froze arm extended.

"Perfect view." It was her feline stretch, her quadruped stance, her skimpy attire: lace panties misaligned over her backside. His eyes fixed on the puckered ribbon of pink flesh where the leg elastic had bit her bum cheek.

"Pervert." She wiggled her ass at him.

"I prefer connoisseur."

* * *

It went like that for days, weeks even. They almost didn't leave the bed. They woke to find their heads on legal paper pillows and their fuzzy eyes on crime scene wall art, and their baby always at arm's reach. Every time they found an oddity they flagged it. The pages were laden with graphic post-its; big hand drawn arrows and dramatic circles. Eames wrote down their process, clearly and legibly, in order to give the active detective a logical storyline (clerical details like this, were mostly beyond Goren now). The work wasn't completely in a bubble, there were follow ups and debriefings, but teleconference was a beautiful thing. Best perhaps was the power. They got to call time of death on the unsolvable ones, like egomaniacal coroners. Deakins was trusting them to be the final word. They stuck the 'done', and 'forever undone' alike, back inside pre-labeled courier envelopes, bound for lower Manhattan.

"Have you ever thought of getting a PI licence?" Alex asked him rather suddenly, as the late August sun sank low, a warm pink and orange guest in their living room.

"Have you ever thought of having another baby?" He asked.

She could only laugh. _**Points of connection, zero. **_"No Robert I haven't. The first one is still killing me. And also how about that Atlantic lobster."

He made a 'huh?' face.

"I thought we were playing non sequitur."

"Good one." He tipped his head to her. "I don't think I'm romantic enough to be a PI."

The laughter spurted from her, like rounds from an uzi. "First of all, you're _so romantic_ \- with a capital R - that you're barely of this time. Second, I think most PIs follow cheaters and eat fast food. Not exactly the plot to an old movie."

"No then, I haven't."

"Why not?" Alex was thinking that if they were PIs this could be them, everyday, for eternity. From her spot in their armchair, wrapped in a cashmere throw against the chill of central air, the notion felt like utopia.

"I like having the state behind me." He said.

"Military guy."

"Yeah, that's probably where it started."

After a long silence she said, "I think we should go undercover on this one." She wiggled the corner of the case file in her lap.

"Okay."

"That was easy." She frowned.

He shrugged.

"These aren't even our cases, we're only supposed to be pushing paper. It's risky and.. "

"It was your idea."

"Yeah but do you have _any _boundaries." She said exasperated. "Don't you even want the details?"

"I know the file." He assured her.

"_This file?_" She looked down. It was a generic, beige, office standard, that she'd pulled from a boxful of same. It was anonymous to her eye. "What do you know about this file?"

"Nightclub murder. Club name: Desire. Victim shot in rear alley. 9mm. Silencer. Execution style. Victim's name is Carl Stroud. Suspect's name Grayson Donne."

She frowned at the creepy accuracy.

"I've read all the files." He informed her.

She suspected as much, when she was sleeping, in the middle of the night.

"And I deduced that you pulled it from that box." He pointed at her feet "And I remembered that it was the thickest one in there."

"You're barely human." She shook her head.

Bobby sank low in the sofa with his fingers shoved under the waistband of his boxers, a comfortable place for the hand of a languid man. "I think there's no harm poking around. I think a nightclub is pretty inconspicuous. And I think my ass is fused to this couch. I just want to move again."

"I know. We need to get out of here." Alex groaned. Jogging with the stroller, and making runs to the green grocer didn't count. They were basically shut ins. She gestured at Jude, who was wigging out in his jolly jumper. "Julia will take him. I called."

"Perfect."

"She misses him. She says the kids are dying for a playdate. She's so sweet."

"Great, because _we_ _need_ to dress up, and _we need_ to eat something made by a chef."

"I know. That's why I chose this case. Nightclub, drug money, dead bouncer." She said. "Not that we need an excuse to go out, but why not, makes it more exciting, and Deakins did say to roll play." She held up her cell. "I've already made an OpenTable reservation for 'Indulge'. It's a block over from 'Desire'. And yes I'm aware of how that sounds."

"Indulge?"

"Pan-American cuisine. Jacket, no tie." She tossed him the phone. He caught it easily and looked at the website.

"Looks good." He said. "Chi-chi. We never do this."

"We go out."

"Not like this, not since Jude, not anywhere much ritzier than The Diner."

"I guess."

"You know what that means..." He said.

"What?

"Dress slutty."

He didn't catch the pillow before it bounced off the side of his head.

* * *

"That's the guy." Alex gestured with her drink, a cosmo. She was channeling Carrie Bradshaw tonight. "I recognize him from his mug."

"Nice of them to give his job back, after being arrested for the murder of a co-worker." Bobby murmured.

Alex angled her body toward the VIP section looking up. Their mark, Grayson Donne, was was standing on a cordoned off dias. He was an Elite Concierge. "I'm going to talk to him." She said.

"About what? He's not going to confess."

"He doesn't have to confess he just has to admit to knowing Monica Lundy."

Bobby wasn't used to being cautious, let alone the voice of reason, but she was behaving impetuously. Alex didn't want the solve. She was bored. She wanted the adrenaline, pure and simple. They'd been away from the job too long. Instead of profiling her he said,

"We aren't even supposed to be here. We don't have a mandate to be undercover." He sounded like a nagging nanny, he hated himself right now. But he also couldn't tell her, that he was more comfortable when she was packing heat, and stomping around in sensible boots. He couldn't tell her that all the cleavage, and bare legs and strappy sandals were reeking havoc with his judgement. He was absurdly mindful of her femininity tonight. He felt irritatingly protective.

Before leaving home, Alex had walked out of the bedroom, did a coquettish quarter turn, and asked _"Slutty enough?" _Bobby hadn't answered, he'd just stared. This Alex, was a lot like the Alex he'd encountered at a certain black tie Christmas party. She was wearing a tequila, sequinned, a-line minidress, upon which thousands of costume jewels shimmied as she moved. She'd also pulled out that trick again, the one with her hair. The one where a couple of clipped extensions had it long and flowing and completely transformational. He was dumbstruck. Add to that her small waist, high cheekbones, elven features and dancing eyes and... He knew she was beautiful, but in a half an hour she achieved stunning. She slipped on some strappy silver stilettos. And his gaze fell to her legs, just the way she'd orchestrated. Every woman in heels was in the business of shaping calves and harnessing eyes.

_"Let's stay home." _He said. His hands sliding north along trans-thigh highway and feeling no barriers under her dress. _None. "You're not wearing any..."_

_"Back off handsy. We're definitely going out." _Then she cheekily flashed him her thong.

"I think he'll talk to me." Alex was saying now, still staring at Grayson Donne.

Bobby grabbed her arm over the bistro table. "No."

"What'd we come here for then?"

"To observe. To dance."

"To bust murdering scum." She spat.

"Hold on there Dirty Harry." He said and she laughed.

Truth was, with an Argentinian matambre, and Chilean Cab, a slab of New York cheesecake, and a sweet sticky Port chaser, all marinating in his gut, Bobby wasn't feeling very feisty. He felt like groping her (under the guise of dancing). He didn't care about saving New York tonight.

"Five minutes. If he doesn't let me behind the velvet rope, or show any interest, come and take me to the dance floor."

"This place is a mob front. It's Masucci."

"I'm showing some thigh, not buying a hit. It'll be harmless."

"Those are my thighs. I don't share."

"_Oh stop_." She said getting peeved now. Peeved enough that it propelled her out of her seat. Bobby thought he owned her. While part of her liked it, the detective in her wanted to drop kick him. She set her cell to record, and slipped it speaker down under her tits. It was a flip phone, the hinge sat in her cleavage and the subtle V boosted her assets. To Alex, the cold metal under a skimpy dress felt like home. Vice home. Lotsa girls did this in a pinch.

She touched Grayson Donne's over-crunched abs and he opened the velvet rope. It took all of three seconds to entice him. Because Alex felt good and looked good. Also because he was bored and horny and little bit slow. He had Masucci henchman written everywhere. He was all puffed pecks and bad Brooklyn.

"I don't come here often." She blinked up at him. She looked out over the barrier at the technicoloured sea of dancers. The club was packed. With mostly 30 somethings, post-club-kid types. Alex tried to sound soft and unsophisticated. "My friend was too afraid to come over, but I wanted to get his view."

"Yeah great view." The knuckle dragger murmured, and she felt the heat of his eyes on her flank. She bent forward at the railing a little more, knowing it pulled her dress up, just enough to keep him interested. "What's your name?" He asked.

"Monica." Alex said, turning to him with massive eyes.

"Oh uh, hi Monica."

_**He stumbled. Name recognition.**_ Alex thought. She loved playing these games.

The details of the rest of their interaction were very tawdry. Nothing more then a base 'honey pot' trap, sprung on someone dumber then the average Pooh bear. But then it got good. When a large, livid man in a suit joined them. Bobby didn't wait for an invitation into the VIP lounge, no, he unhooked the rope and crossed class lines in the most brazen way. Because he was seeing red. He didn't like the game Alex was running, and it wasn't too late to drop it and leave. Bobby locked furious eyes with her and grabbed her arm. And she was raging too, but managed to keep her cover.

"Bo! No!" She gave him the name of her neighbours dog.

Wordlessly Bobby shouldered Grayson Donne out of the way, keeping his fists clenched at his side. Then he moved them to the exit. Few would have blamed him. When he'd arrived the bouncer's index finger had been sliding upward, a slow unerring path up the back of his woman's leg. But of course pushing the man was a fighting move. And of course, there was retaliation.

"Hey buddy. What the fuck do you think you're doing!" Came the neanderthal call, then (like clockwork) a meaty palm landed on the detective's shoulder.

"We're leaving." Bobby shook him off. He didn't want to get into it with Grayson Donne. And he didn't want to look too long at Alex either. He just wanted to leave. _**It's all fun and games until you get shot in an alley. **_

"Not with her, you ain't."

Bobby stopped mid-step. And thought, _**this guy is a piece of work**_. Really. Instead of a brain, he had a shiny penny rattling around inside his head, and weight of the Massuci's at his back. This steroid munching hoodlum thought he owned the world. It was idiots like this that didn't deserve freedom. That didn't have the intelligence or the finesse to behave in civilized society. Goren decided then, to do the world (_MCS, himself_) a favour. And without a hint (or common sense) he started a riot amongst the crystal highballs, tanned legs, and plump velvet setees. He turned around, released Alex, and launched at Donne so hard, and with such vicious precision, that he laid the man flat on his ass. The concierge took a few bar stools down with him. There were no fists, no smack talk, just pure intensity. All of the decadent people stopped, mouths agog, champagne bubbles suspended on tongues, and amber alcohol oceans pooled on palettes. Even the DJ scratched for dramatic effect.

"You're gonna regret that asshole."

And that was how Goren and Eames got hauled into the alley south of Suprend Street. By two bouncers and an 'Elite Concierge.' It smelled metallic back there. And the blood stains were practically fresh. Not really, they'd been long bleached. But in the night, with the gloom staved off by a single security spotlight, with the low erie thump of clubland beats, and not a decent soul in sight, it was easy to see how this was a executioner's table.

"We don't want any trouble." Goren tried to step in front of Eames, but the gig was up, and she wasn't a fading violet anymore.

"You coulda fooled me." Donne was a menace. Bobby's eyes tracked a bulge at his ankle. _**Holster, small calibre.**_

"We're cops. I'm wired." Alex shut it down before it got violent. She pulled her badge. She wished she had a weapon.

"Pigs?! No fucking way." Donne grabbed his short blond hair, in real distress. The kind of distress a man feels on his third strike. Bobby smelled his panic plain as day. The thug started pacing and panting. Donne's stout, chunky companions (two men, both wearing 'Desire' muscle T-shirts and sunglasses at night) touched their ear pieces, then headed back inside. Clearly they weren't messing with cops.

Bobby panned around looking for a glossy, black, all-seeing eye. Cameras. He nudged Alex and they looked straight up into them. She held up her badge to the nearest one. "Looks like you're on your own." Bobby mocked Donne. He felt secure now. A psychological defeat was always his favourite. "They're cutting you loose Grayson. You're just a big, dumb liability. The cops are on their way you know. I bet the Masucci's have you doing Carl Stroud on video too. I bet they own you. I bet they've already sent an unmarked envelope with footage of that murder to the department. How stupid can you get, assaulting a cop? I bet there's already an APB out on you. If I were you, I'd run. Get a few seconds head start on the patrol."

There was a wild look in the criminal's eye. He glanced down at his ankle, thought better of it, then he turned and fled, lumbering down the alley.

Alex looked at Bobby. Then collapsed into peels of boozy, buzzy laughter. "What? I can't believe he just did that. He actually turned and ran." She had to support herself on the brick wall, she was cackling so hard.

"Let's go." He commanded, feeling the tension wick away.

She was as crazy as he was.

* * *

Deakins was livid. Kind of. With all the self-righteous bluster of a man who now had Grayson Donne dead to rights, and 20 previously dead cases back in the mix, and who felt completely impotent because of it (in the corporal punishment sense).

"You two jokers like the Masucci's so much? Here." He tossed a file at them. "Take this one. You're back on." As he walked away Alex heard him murmur _"Hippies."_

Hardly.

Maybe a little shaggier, both of them growing out their hair by some tacit anti-establishment agreement. A beef with life tended to do that, prompted one to grab control of the little things. Bobby hadn't seen a pair of clippers in months (she'd offered, he'd waved her off). But their hiatus had mostly restored order. And Alex felt feisty. She felt like yelling after the captain.**_ Is that all you got old man?_** Like a grounded teenager with one leg out the bedroom window. Alex took this sparkiness as a good sign. She was back. Her relationship felt strong. She had rebonded with her son. And they were mowing down cases. But she also acknowledged that her devil-may-care behaviour was a little more Goren than Eames. After weeks together, undiluted, he was a shunt under her skin, flowing hot blood to the sassy region of her brain. _**Straight arrow Eames learns how not to give a fuck.** _She laughed silently. Her foundations had been fortified.

Bobby stood, stuck the unread brief in his binder, zipped it up, tucked it all under his arm, and said, "Let's go." She fell in beside him. Slapping the car keys against her thigh like a makeshift tambourine.

The resistance was gone.

They loved the job again.

For now.

It turned out a toy poodle had been the first on the scene, and he wasn't talking. So they shifted gaze to his scarred, violated owners. "We were arguing about whether to clip Papillon, and then he took off. I ran after him, and..." The couple told Alex. The woman snuggled a white canine puffball in arms, and kissed his furry kinky face, as if he weren't an animal too, as if he wouldn't have _joined_ the mauling if he weren't busy being suffocated by a coupla midtown mabels. "This park used to be so safe." The man was saying. He meant, 'we used to be innocent.' Alex didn't tell him that this was the tenth body to be pulled out of this 3 square miles that she knew of. Perspective. Life was about perspective.

Goren and Eames did one revolution around the the prostrate body of Amanda Norman and shared a loaded look. Masucci's? Deakins must have drunk one too many cups of bad coffee. This was the work of a nut. Likely a lone nut. The profile came effortlessly. The words coming from him, then her, then him again, without interruption or scripting. As if of a common mind, a mastermind.

"Deep gouges in the skin, lots of bleeding and swelling." _Her._

"These blisters, dead skin doesn't dissipate heat. He gave her a bath post-mortem." _Him._

"The lividity pattern doesn't match her position, he kept her long enough for lividity to set before dumping her here." _Her._

"Her position, he didn't leave her face up naked, vulnerable. Or humiliated and face down in the mud. Instead he dressed her, and left her on her side, sheltered. With her dignity." _Him._

Alex summed it up eloquently in the SUV,

"What? The Masucci's are leaving baby boom boom girls in the bushes now?"

Bobby smiled at the file that lay open across his knees. "Definitely not the mob."

"I'm kinda glad. A nice whodunit is in order." The mob was hierarchy, and insurgence, and blood bonds, and psychopathy. The mob was better suited to a team of shrinks then the NYPD. This dead girl felt like a nice, manageable scale. The concept of closure, though much mocked, was coined for simple cases like this: find the miscreant, dispose of him and then sleep well.

Alex was aware that she'd used the term 'nice' in conjunction with the _still real_ image of the young woman, her pretty face beaten, lying in the dirt, her calf a bloody deflated skin bag. But Alex was a master of thought direction. It never did to dwell. The girl's life was over, but the game was afoot.

* * *

He was poking at that torn up leg, like it was a half finished lamb shank on his dinner plate. Alex couldn't help but recoil a little. She was about to ask him if he'd like to date it, or worse,_ taste it,_ when he pulled out some information. He found a missing piece inside the wound.

"These marks on the bone..."

"Canine teeth marks." Rodgers restated bruskly.

"No underneath that." He said with just enough impatience to get the MEs back up. "There's two straight lines."

Rodgers leaned in with her eagle eye and her then carted over her microscope. She nodded. "Cut marks, from a knife, just about where the calf muscle joins the Achilles tendon. And then another one, very faint where the muscle attaches behind the knee." Mystified was the word. How _Goren_ came up with these things - when she had thousands of dollars of equipment at her disposal, not to mention a medical degree, and time, and a mandate to do nothing but ogle corpses - she would never know.

* * *

Goren sat like a statue. A palm cupped round his fist. It was 'The Thinker' reinvented for a modern audience. He was hypnotized by sheets and sheets of depravity.

"If you try too hard to get inside his mind you'll give yourself a migraine." Alex didn't like his absorption but she held the worry at bay. _**Not yet.**_ She had to respect his process. Let him start to lose himself, let him breach the fine film of reality. None of the good stuff they were reaching for was here, in the bullpen. It was all inside his head. Somewhere in a web of cognitive connections. In his gruesome imaginings. And Alex had to let him go. When she couldn't pull him back, that was when the panic came. As a little test (her own scale of 'completely present' to 'off the reservation') she engaged him in a game of speculation. And he was fine. She felt relieved. He was still highly engagable.

"That time of night he could have come out of the club." Bobby offered.

"Her friend said Amanda wouldn't give those guys the time of day."

'Well when Mr. Feijo grabbed her, the guy who helped her out, her white knight, him she might have talked to."

That sent them back to the painted ladies of Xanadu.

"He said I wasn't his type." Admitted Frankie, a stripper whose idea of a bra was a nipple trap.

"Really? Did he say what his type was?" Bobby was intrigued.

"Someone soft, who wouldn't hustle him and keep checking their watch."

"Okay Frankie. You can go call your babysitter now. Thanks." The chesty auburn innocent rose and left. Funny how all that exposed skin made her seem even younger when she opened her mouth. It was hard to live up to the hype. Goren looked at Eames "He's looking for a girlfriend, someone who'll stay."

"That's a messed up way of making someone stay." Alex spat.

He looked at her.

She had no idea how well adjusted she was.

Bobby on the other hand, remembered the feeling of unrelenting solitude. His whole life had been lonely until Alex. He remembered the sinking feeling when people left. And not left for a long time - not to go on vacation, or across the continent - but rather left to go to the bathroom, left for a cigarette, hung up abruptly and left the conversation hanging. Because in those small leavings there was a subliminal inference 'you're not important.' Oh he understood the pain of being left. Bobby was a man who knew the backs of his family better then their fronts.

He felt queasy about that realization all the way back to the squad.

* * *

Now they were getting somewhere. There were three divots. Not enough force to pierce the cranium, just enough to register the perp's intention. So much of it was about intention really. So little about action. The action was disgusting, gruesome, but with the proper justification even the law would excuse it. Now they had insight into this killer's intention. Now they could look for similar cases with a similar intention. What they needed was a woman with a bonafide hole in the head, to shore up the profile.

"The left prefrontal cortex." Rodgers was saying, gesturing at the image of the wound.

"Controls behaviour, judgement." Goren turned and came to Eames. Close, _very close up,_ so much that she angled back, for appearances sake. Still, it was intimate. He was in the zone, and never mind Rodgers looking on, all scrubs and folded arms.

_Now_ Eames felt her rage engage. For the dead woman, for others, for some mother's daughter - gone to soon from the earth because she wouldn't _submit to the desires of a man._ It was disgusting. "Are there any other previous homicides with a wound like this?" Eames gestured at the x-rays, her voice vicious and hollow and intense.

"Not in New York county. I'll check the other boroughs. You wouldn't believe what gets written off as accidental." The doctor scoffed.

In the car, again came that queasy discomfort. Bobby didn't know why he felt odd about this one. Wanting a woman to stay. There was no comparison. He wasn't desperate. He was normal. He wanted Alex stay, but he'd given her a ring, and words of love, and he'd put a baby in her belly. _**And she's yours at work. And yours at home. And you track her down anywhere, even halfway across the state. And you cold cock anyone that touches her. You've got her in a bubble. And soon you'll suffocate her with your crazy.**_

He couldn't deny that he'd hooked into Alex like a parasite.

"What are you thinking." She asked lightly from across the cabin, pulling her eyes away from the traffic.

"Nothing."

* * *

It felt wrong to like John Tagman.

But he was a very sympathetic killer. So reticent and retro and completely arrested in his development. Wood panelling, grade school awards and big pair of 80s style glasses. Tagman was so tragically unhip, that his look was about to come around again.

Bobby had never been fey, or fair, or frail. He'd never been a man out of time either. Growing up Bobby's clothes had all been Frank's hand me downs and they had been generic and cheap; band logo t-shirts, bargain store sweats and stacks of jeans. He'd never been called out for bad fashion, on the contrary he'd been utterly forgettable.

"The least you can do is let the department _buy us lunch._" He was in character. He raised his voice and made a grandiose gesture, like some cop sucking on the public teat. "I got a meal voucher".

"I... I don't know," Came Tagman's wee voice. A swift wind could blow the guy over. He was no match for the gail force coming out of Goren's mouth.

"Come on, cam on, cam on. There are a coupla places around the corner they look pretty good."

* * *

They ate together. Two bowls of piping hot chili. Tagman ate like the bowl was his only friend in the world. He clearly was not a womanizer. In fact, it was debatable whether he truly _saw_ anyone, let alone women. He was so consumed with himself. Bobby had never met _anyone_ so toxically introspective.

Goren turned the meat and beans on his tongue, the detective found that sitting across from evil (or at least the embodiment of the conventional definition of such) was pleasant. He couldn't resist making comparisons. Like Tagman, Bobby certainly considered himself introspective. But unlike this man he had never struggled with women. Bobby'd always been big, and sort of athletic, and _Heathcliff_ moody - and all in quantities enough to be intriguing to the opposite sex. He hadn't exactly fought women off, but he'd had his share.

"Now I know why you brought us here." Bobby ogled their waitress. "She's cute, you ever ask her out?"

"No."

"That more your type." He steered their eyes to a toned tanned, belly baring, woman coming out of the bodega across the street.

"No. I don't have a type."

"Word of advice John, women respond to confidence. When I was a kid at that beach, I used to watch guys try to pick up girls. What worked, what didn't work." It was true. He had.

"It helped?"

"Eventually."

Back in his living room. Bobby poked around. He mostly stayed in character, the benevolent blowhard. But occasionally it slipped, like when he looked over at John. Not _the perp_, not _Tagman_. No at John. This man was definitely a John; it was a bedrock (but frankly forgettable) kind of name. It was old and calm and pious. It was a good fit.

"I guess you've gotten used to being by yourself." Bobby said, this time more himself.

"You don't really get used to it." Tagman murmured.

"No. No you don't really ever get used to it."

They watched softcore porn. And they bonded (after a fashion). So much so, that Goren found himself a little hysterical when Carver revealed his trial strategy. Lethal injection. Bobby felt revulsion at the finality of it. It consumed his belly like a backdraft. All of the his own childhood memories, his life experiences were the accelerant, but on their own they were a controlled burn. One afternoon with John Tagman had knocked out a window in his soul. And that sudden rush of oxygen, to old memories and insecurities, had raged into an inferno. It just seemed wrong. It was an injustice to be denied intimacy. It seemed wrong to kill someone for craving human contact that much. _**Dammit! It should have been his birthright!**_

"The only intent that he had was to keep these woman alive, as companions!" Goren screamed spitting foamy flecks all over Carver. "The jury won't care they'll convict on emotion!"

There were enough looks of horror to go around. But none really mattered. Bobby was used to being the freak, used to pushing the boundaries of simplistic office dwellers like the captain, who growled, "Step into him." or the DA who mocked, "Try one of your tricks."

But Alex.

**_Not Alex._**

It was a third degree burn when she turned away too.

In her eyes he saw revulsion. "Of all the people to go to bat for."

"I know. I know it's not the popular choice."

"I'll say." She stood and walked away.

He sat there alone. The empty room seemed a manifestation of his fears. And he felt _persecuted_ by the rigid chair. He felt _chided_ by the hot bulbs overhead. He felt _indicted_ by his necktie. And he wondered how long she would put up with him. How long would she stomach his deviant leanings. How long until Alex bailed for good? Until he wasn't fit to see his child. How long until he was truly alone again?

* * *

"Stop. Stop" Alex panted sweating, aching, wanting this marathon fuck session to end. "Doesn't that thing go down." She meant the full, hot, hard, rod impaling her, over and over. She tried to clench her thighs.

"Not tonight."

"I'm getting... I'm getting sore..." She was tired and chaffed and worried. This was the fourth time. _The fourth time._

"Don't leave me." Bobby said to her in the dark, his voice snapping and clicking with rawness.

_**What!?**_ "I'm not going to leave you."

"Then let's have another baby." He panted. "Then let's get married." He called, spilling his seed all over her insides.

Alex was seeing a trend. The way his thoughts were turning. It was new. His fear seemed commensurate with the ever rising responsibility, the rising stakes, of their new life. He was cracking under the weight of it. He was imagining loss. He was burrowing into the crook of her neck now. She tried to reassure him. "Bobby." _Nothing._ "Bobby." _Nothing._ _"Bobby!"_ She grabbed his face. "Don't let it get into your head. _You aren't him,_ and I'm not leaving. You can't empathize like this. Normal people don't go that way. Normal people don't do what he did. We won't end up a bloodstain in a prison laundry. Are you kidding me? Do you think I'd ever let it get that bad for you? _Never._ I'd put you down myself first."

"How sweet."

"I'm just saying. You have someone that's holding on with both hands."

He slid off her. He seemed to find some peace in that. His lids drooped. He gathered her up. Her bosom was the softest pillow in the world.

"Both hands." She whispered into his ear as he drifted to sleep.


	36. Chapter 36

**GREAT BARRIER**

The mother lifted her child high and young legs clasped her waist like a belt; pubis tucked over hip bone, nature's shelf. The little girl felt as light as whipped topping. Even with a mile to go, and a juggling a large bag, there was no stoop in the woman's frame, no fatigue in her gait. The mother ran her fingertips through her child's hair, a luxurious golden thread. It cascaded down the narrow neck and back. It rolled, in soft intoxicating waves. It seemed too bountiful for the waif it came attached to. And although the net effect of that hair was truly metallic, there were threads of pure white woven through. Those pure white veins played with the sun, and with the eyes of passersby. People routinely stopped to give them a rub. They couldn't resist. The child's head was like the lure of cashmere, it _needed_ stroking.

The mother was the same, only magnified. She too had golden waves, slightly darker, that bounced around her shoulder blades with each step. Together, on errands, in Brisbane central, this duo rarely escaped comment. "Beautiful like her mummy." Or, "Simply gorgeous ladies."

The pale skin of the child's shoulder shaped elegantly to the bone, with all the ease and contour of an ivory tusk. She was perfectly made, and perfectly innocent, as are all children of that age. The mother's tight grasp skewed the child's pink petalled sundress, to reveal a strappy X of even fairer flesh on her back. These pale strips, were a reminder that her little body had been tattooed by hours spent outside. This little girl lived a charmed, sun-kissed life. She wore a wardrobe comprised almost entirely of light dresses, and itty bitty bathing suits (occasionally paired with a fashionable stole or jacket). Also, tiny golden heart-shaped studs, winked up from small earlobes, and patent leather daisies bloomed on open-toed sandals. And the pair of flowers, danced back and forth on the breeze of knobby knees.

By all accounts this child was _loved._

Ro and Nikki still occasionally referred to their girl Charlie (or Charlotte Grace) in months. She was little more than a baby. Her existence was barely a blush, 37 months next Wednesday.

"Shall we get an ice lolly and take the boat to Straddie?" The woman asked with a playful twinkle. And the child nodded emphatically. It was a favourite day trip, this jaunt to Stradbroke Island. They did it once or twice a month, since Charlie had begun to toddle. Sometimes as a pair, sometimes with daddy. The boat, or rather the ferry, made a routine commute to and from the port at Cleveland. But for this wee thing, the ship wasn't a necessity of metal and engineering, rather it was a magical experience.

"Yook..." Charlie shouted (still struggling with L's) and Nicole did, down at the turquoise shimmering sea, with it's blobby navy depths, at a school of sleek dolphins, bouncing and skipping in the frothy wake.

Nicole set her child down on the outside railing, then she bent at the waist and perched there too. She let her elbows both support her, and grip the little hips. She dangled her loose wrists over the Bay. Nicole flexed and relaxed, adjusting the tension of her hold on Charlie. She felt dizzied by the sea. Like many before her, she fought the inexorable draw of the water, that strange vertigo of height times rush. She briefly imagined what she would do if her baby tumbled back and slipped beneath the waves.

"Give me a kiss." The mother commanded. There wasn't even a breeze between the request, and Charlie's supple lips upon hers. Then boney arms went around her neck. Nicole still marvelled that. There was never a bargain with this little one, never any manipulation, only this absurd openness. Charlie was a lamb. The term lamb had been coined for this docile sort of innocence.

The ferry docked and they walked off hand in hand. The ride across Moreton Bay was almost free, if you didn't have a schedule or a car. And once docked in Dunwich there were island buses that left every hour on the hour. The pair caught one immediately, as if fated. Charlie was vibrating with excitement. This was the kind of transportational extravaganza that children dreamed of. The whooshing ship, and now a grunting bus. She clapped and grinned and squealed. They found a pair of seats on the half empty bus, and Charlie secured the window. They wound across that width of the island, and up Dickson Way. The bus had loose suspension, it tossed them about and the child added extra bounce to every bump, propelling off her seat with glee.

"We're almost there. Almost there." She chanted, though she had no real concept of time or space, and the journey was as good as the destination. And Nicole eyed the young specimen with amusement. Nicole was a student of life and her daughter was an enthusiastic subject. At last, they found a nice spot on the beach. Then two towels, two straw sun hats and a small bucket appeared from inside mum's large pink tote. Charlie set to work, busily heaping dry sand into a pile, unconcerned as it slid back down the sides and never really grew.

"Building a big castle." The child murmured, to no one in particular.

Nicole watched. Nicole fidgeted. Nicole yawned. Then Nicole waited for the ideal moment and did the oddest thing. She slipped away unseen, and hid behind a doon. She sunk low in the shadow, and held her breath, and quietly watched the rise of the sandy mound above her. Seeing, for quite some time, only the tufts of tall brown grass that thrust up through the surface. Then at last (_**bloody ages later**_) her girl crested the rise. She watched Charlie stand there. She watched the child's head dart all over. She watched the child's eyes gloss. She watched the child's lip distend. And she watched how forlorn she looked, all alone on this desolate public beach.

And still Nicole hid.

She wondered how long it would take, for the first tear to fall. She shimmied lower and mentally counted. _**1 one-thousand, 2 one-thousand, 3 one-thousand, 4 one-thousand, 5... **_She wondered if Charlie would wander around, or if she would sit down in defeat. The latter. When the child sat and began to cry, then wail, only then did the mother come forward, and offer comfort.

"Don't cry goose." She flopped down. "I was only playing hide and seek." Nicole let the girl crawl into the hollow of her crossed legs.

"Hide and seek?" Charlie offered, with a quizzical brow and full wet cheeks.

Nicole nodded. "You hide now."

It ended up being a game of tag. They dashed about in the sand. Kicking up clouds of grit as they fled, and fell, and rolled. It was silly and surreal, with only the occasional roar of a 4x4 tearing up the landscape over yonder, and the dot of a parasail on the horizon. It seemed Monday afternoons in the sunshine, were exclusively the property of stay-at-home-moms with their charges, and tourists. But both were in short supply at this off-season, unmanned, stretch of heaven called Deadman's Beach.

"Shall we take a dip?" Nicole asked at last.

Charlie nodded. Nicole shed her tank top and white cotton capris, to reveal the body of a woman that appeared to never have passed a child (that was how she thought of it, like _passing_ an accidentally swallowed fruit pit, or _passing_ a nuisance kidney stone). No, this woman was smooth and golden and lean.

The water was refreshing and buoyant. They spread like starfish, floating, letting their blonde tresses fan out thinly. The hair massaged the surface like thousands of gentle fingers. "Hold on tight." Nicole cautioned loudly to her daughter, her ears below the waves. But short moments later she slipped free of the weak little fingers. Nicole let her head loll to the side, to watch the tide float her girl away. The child's body was like a piece of driftwood, then at other times, her psychedelic bikini - all turquoise and fuschia and chartreuse - might have been a parrot fish nipping up to the surface. _**And that hair,**_ it was the tricky gleam of booty from a wrecked pirate ship. Nicole quite admired the child's ethereal beauty, in an abstract way.

Charlie then realized she was floating off, and she lost her posture. And with that she sunk under the surface. She thrust up and coughed. Then sunk and rose again. Nicole kept a single brown eye above the waves, watching. It was a shrewd, flat, disc, filled with aquatic knowing, like that of a whale, but with arguably less humanity. Nicole stayed consumed as the child struggled to live. She watched her soundlessly rise and sink again. It was the myth of drowning dispelled. The wild flailing and terrified screams were absent, there was only the truth. _It would eat her._ The ocean would eat her, the way we eat flecks dust and bacteria all day long. Then it would carry on, forever swallowing, walls of water folding over on itself, again and again.

Eventually Nicole paddled over. She grasped her child's hair. She fisted it, wrapping it around her hand, and pulled the small head up high above the break, and into the relief of oxygen. Charlie sputtered and hacked. The mother comforted that tiny trembling body. "I told you to _hold on tight_ goosey." The girl's eyes were red with strain and salt. "Let's go get that lolly, and go home to daddy." Nicole said, towing her daughter back to shore. The child managed a hoarse laugh of excitement. "Did you have a fun day?" The mummy asked.

"Yes." She looked up earnestly. "I yiked the waves and the sand."

"Do you want to come back again? Maybe with daddy?"

"Yes!" This time it was a shout of bliss. Charlie could easily imagine the three of them together. She imagined sitting high on daddy's shoulders. She imagined his medium brown hair, and how it felt against her cheek. "Daddy." She repeated, with such sweet soft wistfulness. A wist so beyond her years, that Nicole locked her in her sights.

"Do you love daddy very much?" She asked.

The child nodded, and spread her thin arms wide. "This much."

"What do you like best about daddy?"

The three year old considered that with all the solemnity of a scholar. "I yike bedtime."

"Bedtime?" Nicole raised her eyebrows with maternal surprise.

"We hug tight and read stories."

Nicole frowned. "How tight do you hug?"

The child giggled. "Really tight." _**Silly mummy. **_Charlie didn't have the language to describe the PSI of a preschooler grip. "Yike this." She pressed her face to her mother's abdomen and wrapped both arms firmly around her thigh, wriggling.

Perhaps it was that nose so near her groin. Perhaps it was the thought of a man and child in bed together. Perhaps it was watching the girl undulate naturally, as she tried to reenact her 'crushing' bedtime grip. But in an instant Charlie was wrenched away by her forearm, then strung up on her tippy toes. 'Stop it! Just stop it! Is that the kind of girl you want to be?" Nicole wrenched the arm against the joints. "A dirty little girl?" Her grip grew tighter and angrier. 'A vile little thing?" The baby hung limp, a chicken in the mouth of a wolf. Nicole twisted and shook her more. "A filthy tease who rubs against…"

At that point Nicole felt, rather than heard, the pop of disengagement. She felt, rather than heard, the shallow crack. She felt, rather than heard, the screech her girl made. And no wonder. The arm looked as boneless as rubber tubing. And now Charlie was _screaming_, a piercing kind of nightmare from her wide dark mouth. "Don't cry, don't cry." But even Nicole could see it was too late for that. When she dropped the arm, the sad thing fell lower than the socket. "Don't cry." The mother tried again. "I'm sorry."

_And God was was she loud!_

To Nicole it wasn't a human anymore, it was a demon mid-exorcism. "Stop! Just Stop!" Nicole yelled. But nothing _closed that mouth_. So she backhanded it. She backhanded the mouth, just to make it stop. She did it, perhaps, with the same amount of force it would take to knock a sturdy lamp from a table. But it took Charlie (who was 29 pounds of air) right off her feet. And down hard against an outcrop of rock. It was bad luck all around. That, that particular ridge of stone, hit that particular child, in that particular spot. It sliced, long and shallow, into the skin of her scalp. And she began to ooze blood. Soon much of that blonde angelic hair was a crimson mess. The child lay still.

It was an underreaction not to run for help.

It was an overreaction to believe the child was dead.

This was the trick of the head wound. A puncture, that no matter the size, yielded tides of blood. All those vessels feeding the brain, vines thrumming under the skin. Nicole knew this. Nicole understood human anatomy. When Nicole looked at people, she saw something else entirely. Sometimes, while in line or in the streets, it was as proletariat pigs, with their unwashed jeans and breakfast stained hoodies. Other times she saw them sexually, as a grouping of orifices - sloppy mouths, and puckered anuses, and slick vaginas. And when she was going in for the kill, she viewed them in a third way, the way a vampire might, as bones wrapped in juicy flesh, full of coiling, forking tubes of blood.

No.

Nicole was no innocent.

Which was why she stood, and looked down dispassionately at the mess she had made. Nicole said something under her breath, it might have been "shit". Then Nicole looked up and down the empty beach. She knelt and kissed her girl's lips. She caressed the line of her girl's delicate throat, exposed, arched over the rock. Then she shoved the heel of her hand there _hard, _until Charlotte Grace was dead.

* * *

Goren and Eames ascended the narrow stairwell together. The whole second floor of this walk up, was sign posted to 'Accoutrements Boutique,' a secret clothing store in Soho.

"May I help you?" Asked the shopkeeper, a trendy fortysomething, with a tapered boy cut and dark rimmed glasses.

"Was there a man in here, about an hour ago?" Eames pulled her badge.

"I've had one customer all morning. A woman who tried on seven different outfits, but didn't buy anything."

"She spent the whole time in the dressing room?" Goren asked.

"Yes."

"What did she look like?" He was picking up a scent.

"Late thirties, nice figure, dark brown hair, glasses, lively eyes. She said she was from LA."

Bobby walked over to the window inside the dressing room. And looked down onto the jewellery store, the scene of their thwarted robbery. "It's a perfect view. You talked to her?" He asked the boutique owner.

"Yes, she was curious about my daughter, I have a picture here." She handed him a gold gilded frame. It featured a girl and a European streetscape.

"She's a musician. This is in London. There's a London taxicab." Bobby said and the woman nodded.

"I'm going to visit her next month. She giving a concert outside of London at the... I forgot the name of the hall, the Shell... Shellbourne? Something like that."

"The Sheldonian."

"Yes that's it. The woman from LA said it's a beautiful old theatre."

"She knew it? She'd been there." Now he was all but certain, grimly so.

"Yes she seemed very cultured. She had a little accent."

"The Sheldonian is in Oxford." Bobby offered.

"That's right. This woman was very funny. She said that when she was younger, she spent a couple of weeks there chasing boys."

"That has a familiar ring to it." Alex said and as she did something rancid attacked her throat.

The bitch was back.

Outside on the sidewalk Alex coughed hoarse and hard. There was a tallon stuck in her larynx. Nicole's professionally waxed, buffed, lacquered tallon. Alex stood on imaginary milk crate at Broadway and Houston and made a silent speech to the citizens of New York. _**There's**_ _**a syringe wielding nut job trolling the subway system. But don't worry she only knocks off liabilities and competition. Also, sorry suckers you're on your own.**_ Alex wasn't naive enough to hope for a resolution this time. Fairy tales of an arrest, a trial, a lethal injection were gone, long gone. She didn't plan to engage Nicole. She just wanted to get out unscathed.

"Nicole." Bobby muttered beside her.

"Nicole." She murmured back. And they moved like there was lead in the soles of their shoes. "Feels like just yesterday we were all together." Alex mocked nostalgia.

"It's bold." He marveled. "Coming back here."

"You expected fear? She didn't get that gene."

"Yeah, but she must be back for a reason."

Alex scoffed. "You! She's back for you!" Nicole was already sprinkling out those titillations. Just for him. And Bobby was already wearing that look he reserved for her, a premium blend of: horror, intrigue and anticipation.

"Me?" He looked at Alex.

_**Okay, so we're playing dumb.**_ Best to lay it all on the table right now, because this time, when he started fucking around, Alex wouldn't be making a clandestine road trip north to prove a point. This time she would bow out, permanently. Her voice held all of that old anger. "Cut the crap. This is, and always will be the Nicole and Bobby show."

"She toys with you too." He said, in a lame attempt to diffuse her.

Alex rolled her eyes. "She thinks I'm your secretary." But for the first time Alex realized that she was real competition, a potential mark. If Nicole got a whiff of it... What that demon would do with their secrets. "And keep it that way." Alex barked at him, with the latitude of the long suffering. "Don't so much as look at me when she's around."

Their eyes met and shouted: _**Jude**_.

Alex talked herself down. There were no loose lips. Hardly anyone knew about their family. She'd been telling select, benign, people that she was getting married (her personal banker, her doctor). She had an elegantly fabricated tale about her fiancé when they asked. She'd been wearing her ring, a lot. Now she slipped the diamond off again, and dropped it into her change purse, amidst the nickels and dimes. She massaged her finger. She needed to let it expand. She wanted to put a band-aid around it, to bury any weakness under layers of plastic and adhesive. Nicole read weakness. Without permission Alex's mind went on a trip, remembering how they'd ended up here. That trial. That stupid, stupid trial. It had gone so wrong. Alex saw the coup de grace in her head…

_Nicole's lawyer had the face of a bulldog, all jowls and teeth in an Armani suit. He'd come very close to Alex, in court that day. He planted his hands on the oak witness stand and leaned in._

"_Isn't it true detective Eames, that this whole case hinges on a vaccination, that either was or was not, issued by a civil servant in Brisbane, Australia almost 3 years ago? Isn't it true that your case against my client doesn't offer one shred of corroborative physical evidence on this continent?" _

"_No. This whole case hinges on bloodwork done right here in the USA." Alex fired back. "The __science_ _doesn't lie. This woman, Nicole Wallace has been vaccinated for anthrax. Her alias Elizabeth Hitchens never was." _

_Nicole sat virginally still, in a navy blue pant suit. Her shirt collar a spray of white lace doily, high on her neck._

_The lawyer turned casually to the jury. "I had my passport renewed just last week, the wife and I are finally making a trip to sunny Costa Rica. When I finally got the papers in the mail, it turns out Uncle Sam thinks I was born in 1930. I'll admit, I'm feeling my age, but I'm pretty certain that I'm not 73 yet." A twitter of laughter floated up from the 12 captives. 'How many of you have experienced these annoying bureaucratic mistakes?" A few nodded. "We submit for your consideration, amended documentation showing the vaccination of Elizabeth Hitchens. It was performed at the Department of Health in Brisbane, Australia." He turned to the judge, an evidence bag in hand. "It was issued for an expedition to Tanzania, Africa for a research project involving livestock. A research project that was subsequently cancelled, and the paperwork for which was mishandled." He turned back to Eames._

_Alex shifted uncomfortably. She felt a fist in her gut. "That paperwork didn't exist two months ago." She said._

"_Or maybe you and your partner were just so __confused and overzealous_ _two months ago, that you didn't do your due diligence."_

Believe it or not, the embarrassment of that moment still stung. Nicole could fabricate anything. Nicole could escape a room with no windows or doors. Alex was done with her. Alex had thought a lot about their reluctant menage a trios. She wasn't as harsh about Bobby's attraction to Nicole as you might think she'd be. Nelda Carlson? Now that was tawdry, pathetic even. At least Nicole was a worthy opponent. Oh, Alex wanted to stick a fork in the woman's eye (_and twist it)_, that was certain. But Nicole was her own worse enemy. Nicole didn't play clean. She murdered copiously and by some mysterious agenda. She had jeopardized Bobby's career. She routinely made fools of them. Nicole's ruthlessness had created a natural buffer between her and Bobby. Alex knew he understood that she was a savage.

Unfortunately Nicole wasn't done with them. She was fixated on Bobby. Not that he was innocent. She was his 'white whale,' his periodic obsession. But what was the hunted without the hunter? Blissful and safe? Perhaps in the animal kingdom, where having no natural predators was a license to thrive. But this was a disgusting, contrived drama. This woman wanted to be chased, and therefore she _needed _her Ahab. It was just a game for her. And Alex had developed a saying when dealing with Bobby over the years: _**Give him a game, to keep him sane. **_

"I know what you're thinking." He said. "I'm not going to lose my head." He read her mind as he aways did.

"Good."

Alex moved alongside the SUV. He followed her and boxed her in. He put his hand over hers on the chrome latch.

"I'm done trifling with Nicole. It's too risky. _Believe me._" He implored. He brought her palm to his mouth and kissed it.

"I do."

"No you don't. But I promise."

She couldn't get over how boyish those words sounded. It got her, right in the heart. Bobby really was soft. This was where they dovetailed, at compassion. It was the pipeline that fed their partnership. His for those below, and hers for those above. He was on a quest to understand the weak-minded. And she to champion the innocent. Bobby was always trying to prevent people from committing crimes against themselves. And Alex saw life as a meritocracy, if you wanted to squander yours on criminal activity, or drugs (or by refusing help for your insanity) that was your choice, but she didn't want to share a planet with you. Time and time again, his sensitivity got them into trouble, and her laser focus saw them out. Alex had the gift of clear sight. Alex was sane, _frightfully sane _sometimes. Lucky for him. And right now she saw that compassion had to fall in the hierarchy of virtues. With Nicole lurking, strength and loyalty were far more important to their survival. Alex would be watching him.

"Trust me." He said.

"Okay." She murmured. "Okay. Let's take another run at her. But screw the outcome."

He smiled, "Right, screw the outcome."

* * *

**"_The greatest detectives in the world. You have to wonder about people who need so much positive reinforcement." She paused. "I missed you at the reading of the verdict. Then again, it wasn't one of your best moments." _**

**"_Well none of us have been at our best lately. You've gone from multi-millionaires to street urchins."_**

_**Oooh good one.**_ _His words stung her sweetly, like linguistic lovemaking without lubrication. _

The first time Nicole Wallace saw Robert Goren it had rocked her world. She was a woman as keenly cultivated as a greenhouse full of strawberries (in the arctic). There was nothing natural in her poise, in her knowledge, in her discourse. She put herself in the most awkward scenarios because she relished dancing on a rapier's edge. It was what she wanted. It was what she'd always wanted. To be enviably accomplished, enviably intelligent, enviably _present_ (with that sparkle that only the best ones had). She had always wanted to be someone beyond common reach. And she was. She was aspirational.

Except with him.

Bobby talked to her and gazed at her, and he did all of it right through her facade. Even when he was factually off base, his observations were emotionally on point.

She found couldn't tuck him into one of her categories. He didn't fit. He wasn't messy or vain, he wasn't a conquest or a kill. She tried to relegate him constantly and failed every time. That had never happened before. She found herself wanting nothing more than to verbally joust with him. He wounded her pride, and she found she _liked_ that. It felt like therapy. And she realized then, that it would be impossible to hurt him. Physically anyway. She had contemplated many times how she might kill him, and never once acted. Especially when he'd caught her by the toenails and dragged her to court. _**Court. **_It was a laughable place for a woman like her. And yet she'd played by the rules, and she'd done it all for him. To see him testify. To watch him move. To speculate about what he was thinking. Court had been a treat, not an ordeal. For the first time in her life, Nicole wondered if she was in love. She relished the irony, that it would be him, a champion of the victimized, coveted by the ultimate victimizer.

Not that she saw herself in that role. When she referred to herself as a 'victimizer', Nicole was simply reading a meme. She killed people, and therefore by societal standards she was evil. But Nicole really saw herself as karma. As a hand meting out justice. Saving the weak from their weakness, knocking the pompous from their pedestals, and eradicating the deviants - the secret sex freaks that paid for perversion, or diddled kiddies. By her measure the world might thank her. Or at the very least study her.

Enter Bobby. He watched her as though she were the only subject in a indefinite study.

On the heels of her intellectual appreciation of him, came the physical. Nicole was surprised to realize that she saw him as beautiful. That was a first. For her, there was a fine aura around him that no one else had. It didn't eclipse the truth. She still saw him as large, awkward and imposing. But it was all juxtaposed by the curiosity of her fascination.

She liked his face, she didn't see veins, she saw a heavy jaw and almost symmetry. She liked his body, she didn't see angry orifices, she saw the male animal, perfect in his proportions - wide shoulders, neat hips. She'd liked this breath on her ear when he'd said "Evil Nicole, is also unrelenting in its pursuits." At that moment he'd smelled faintly of mustard, likely Dijon. She'd felt the bite of horseradish, just before she'd felt the build of cream between her thighs and the swell of arousal.

It was this infatuation with him, that kept her away for years at a time. He compromised her. He made her question her goals. He made her feel like a tramp, plodding all over the planet without purpose. He couldn't even be compared to Ro or Gav (the men she'd actually married and domesticated herself for). For her they had been unions of strategic gain, financial and national documentation. Bobby was in a class of his own.

If anyone, he rather reminded her of Bernard. She'd fucked Bernard (of course they'd fucked) but not for love. It had been like contract negotiations; who's on top. Bernard had shared her goals. They'd had a manifest destiny. A big dream. A big delusion. To take a bite out of the world. To Nicole, it felt, with Bobby, like they also shared a dream. But a microcosm of her other one. This dream was only about self. It was the same manifest destiny, but instead of unleashing it on the world, she and Bobby had an agreement to pick each other apart, until they had conquered themselves.

_**"My child drowned," She leaned in tight, and spat the words in his eye. "You're insane to think anything else. Who helped you concoct this theory, your mother?"**_

_**"In her wildest delusions she never spawned anything like you Nicole."**_

Now the ocean was made of blood.

Both of them slit from stem to stern.

* * *

Robert Goren was very philosophical about Nicole Wallace, for the most part. He had long ago acknowledged her physical attributes and dismissed them. Yes, he found her pretty. Yes, he found her compelling. And yes, she was infinitely fuckable. But he wouldn't put his dick within a ten mile radius of that opening. Even more then his libido, even more then his loyalty to Alex, even more then Nicole's unapologetic malevolence, _even more_ then the notion of self-preservation. Was the _weight_ of duty. Bobby had a deep awareness of the _weight _of his life. It seemed preordained, that light, or inconsequential choices would allude him. Every decision he'd ever made seemed to be infused with matters of life or death. He wore the gravity of his job, the lessons of his past, and the intricate network of secret choices that marked his present, everywhere he went. And because of this grand grasp of reality, he needed to be hyper-sentient, and hyper-responsible.

Enter Nicole, an archetype of instability.

At some point in the evolution of popular culture, a certain glamour had grown attached to instability. Perhaps it was the charming on-screen depictions of weird and wounded geniuses. Perhaps it was the idea that greatness only came on the heels of chaos and nonconformity. Perhaps it was envy of those able to throw off the yoke of convention. Regardless, something about unstable, tortured, souls had secured a warm spot in people's hearts.

Only, Bobby knew, that to live it, to stand on a spinning plate (that was losing momentum) wasn't exhilarating, it was impossible. To not know who your mother was at any given time of day (A vicious bitch? A pious priestess? A slumdog millionaire?) she had so many faces. To not feel safe sleeping in the bed across from your brother. To wonder endlessly where your father might be. Then to internalize all of that off-kilter energy. To amalgamate it into your portrait of yourself, and to find, that because it, you were ruined for the company of regular people. That was it exactly. All that instability had both made him, and ruined him.

So no. Nicole was not charmingly unstable. She was destruction personified.

And yet, part of him thought that they were fated to bump up against one another. He had been chosen to both hold her at bay, and draw out her morality. He had been chosen to save the world from her. Bobby felt (quite validly) that he was the only one on the planet that could do it. His German was getting rusty from lack of use. But it was still there. 'Es muss sein.' A theme of great musical compositions and great works of literature. In English, 'It must be.' Fatalistic and fact.

He tried desperately to remember if he'd always felt this way, or if rubbing up against Nicole made him more morose. Surely he had romped once. He had once been carefree. He had after all, spent couple of weeks in Oxford chasing girls. That didn't sound very 'Es muss sein.' But ah, if he hadn't done that, then he wouldn't have told Nicole the story of it, in that sub-let penthouse off Hudson University. And Nicole wouldn't have been able to weave his brief international flirtations, into her rouse at the Accoutrements Boutique in Soho. And that shopkeeper wouldn't have coincidentally had a daughter in Oxford about to play at the Sheldonian. And that theatre, wouldn't have been one he had himself once sat in, beside one of those young British girls, while enjoying the strains of Beethoven's String Quartet No. 16 in F.

Unbelievable, but true. And that was 'Es muss sein'.

He pled with Ella Miyazaki. "I know that she's overwhelmed your sense of right and wrong. Nothing is too insignificant to escape her attention. She even has you writing malicious letters to your family." When the girl's brow furrowed, the satisfaction Bobby felt was so immense, that for a moment he felt light enough to levitate. Because _this_ really was the best he could do. He could only plant the seeds of doubt and rebellion in her. "Your grandparents received a letter from you about your mother's abortion. Would you like to see it?"

When Bobby warned off Ella, he felt like a scarecrow waving his straw arms frantically at the birds. But not to save the crops. No. It was because the crops had been poisoned. He looked across the interrogation table. He looked straight into the eyes of that rebellious baby. _**Oh sure, she's 'tough'. **_She has crazy hair after all. And she's fallen off her bicycle. And she's been scolded by her intelligentsia parents. _**God.**_ He was staring at the definition of naivety. He was staring at a child who craved love.

Then Nicole's people burst in and swept her away, and that much closer to her death. And Goren weighed a million pounds again. His fate (his 'Es muss sein') was starting to stoop him with all of it's unrelenting weight_._

* * *

_**"People like you and me just aren't fated to have children."**_

_**"Yeah well don't count me out yet."**_

He got a phone call later that night. He was at home, sunk low into his sofa and already two beers deep. Licking his mortal wounds, while considering Nicole and Ella's.

"Goren." He barked into the phone.

"You've moved house Bobby." Nicole said. He knew it. _He knew it. __**Dead my ass.**_ Tricky girl. And she never played by the rules, let alone business hours. It was 10pm. His elation at being right, was quickly devoured by dread. Like a good cop, he immediately considered, taps and traces, and all the other devices at his disposal. He immediately thought of Alex in the bedroom breastfeeding Jude. But instead of summoning her, or the calvary, he took another long calm swig of domestic beer.

"Yeah, high rent and too many unwanted visitors." He dug at her.

She laughed. "You're unlisted as well."

"That didn't seem to stop you." His heart pounded.

"Very little stops me. It wasn't easy to track you down, but I'm alive. I couldn't stand to think of your worry."

His breath hitched. He wondered if he should warn her off hard, or play it cool. He decided on a mix. "Remember, I sleep with a gun under my pillow."

"Oh the mistrust. The perils of being a police officer. Careful to keep the safety on." There was a long pause. "And Bobby?"

"Yes?"

"Kiss that little boy good night, from me."

_Click._


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N: Long time no see. I've been travelling and also a bit blocked about how to keep the story fresh. I hope you're all still interested in my tale. But first bear with me while I ramble on about some old business.**

**In response to comments. Re. Nicole Wallace, I enjoyed writing the previous chapter with all of it's psychology. Love her or hate her, she was the only reoccurring major character outside of the core crime fighting group. However, if you want to read a child abduction plot let me steer you toward 'Prospect Park'. In this work, I'll (mostly) explore the havoc she can reek in absentia.**

**I would also like to say, that if you view Wallace as a foil for Goren, rather then a mortal threat or a potential love interest, she is very useful, in helping us understand his motivations (much more so then Gyson). To the guest commenter, I have read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'A Scandal in Bohemia.' It's a perfect snapshot of Sherlock Holmes. In it you can see the inspiration for (even some physical mannerisms of) Robert Goren. Also as the guest commenter mentioned, it clarifies the fascination with Irene Adler and by extension Nicole Wallace.**

**Re. the canon question. I say 'welcome to the gap.' I'm writing about all the things we didn't see on CI, and referencing a few of the things we did, to anchor the story. You have to understand canon thoroughly to see how fact and fiction weave together here. Some of the things I flesh out were actual scenes, some of them are scene continuations, others are personal deduction (very Holmesian of me ;-), and others still were things only alluded to. Or, you can just say 'screw the details' and take this story on its face, as a nice angsty romance and an exploration of the human condition. Either way, I like readers :)**

**PS. vdofan let me know that if you pause 'Great Barrier' over the paperwork in Goren's hands, Nicole's baby's given name is actually Hannah June. _Whoops._ I've done a lot of pausing and zooming, but I missed that. I may alter chapter 36 at some point to reflect that piece of canon.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	38. Chapter 38

**MAGNIFICAT**

The old fashioned art of the kiss.

A union of the flesh and the divine.

A duet of desire, invaluable in it's simplicity.

Two lips, two intentions, made one.

* * *

The detectives weren't always on call. Every once in awhile there was an evening filled with television. An evening, where they could lie quietly on the couch, eyes like dim bulbs, minds in a trance of half use, bodies as still as their crime scene corpses.

Sometimes they would do this from separate ends of the sofa, in an effort to slough off the day's overstimulation. Other times they would lie squarely on top of each other. He loved to use her as a pillow, clamping around her, his cheek against the warm skin of her belly button, his legs like branches extended thickly over the armrest. And sometimes they lay in a 'half-on, half-off' kind of situation. When they did this, Bobby got the bulk of the furniture (of course) because flat on his back he was wider than it. Alex would tuck into the slot, the crack along the rear where the crumbs collected, and the seat cushions met the backrest. She was small, it was no hardship to wedge herself in.

To her, it was life affirming, being draped over him like this. It was the drone of an hour long medical drama in one ear, "_Get him to the OR! Stat!" _and the soothing: _tha thunk, tha thunk,_ _tha thunk, _of his chest in the other. It was her index finger on his cotton T-shirt, drawing soft curly cues over his nipples. Or a whimsical, romantic fingernail tracing a cupid's arrow, one that pierced his (very real) heart.

Nights like this were slow and languid, like the deep south in the summertime.

But back to the kissing.

The art of the kiss.

Occasionally, their binge watching turned into something else. Something not entirely sexual. Alex would raise her face up to him, as if he were the sun, to feel his warm rays on her skin. He would sense her and glance down. Then he would crane his neck a little. And then her lips would pucker, not for any gain, only an instinctive wrinkled zero. He would also draw his lips up,and fit the oh to hers.

Often it would remain that, a touch of acknowledgment and affection. Other times he would make this noise (that she _so_ loved), a low moan that trembled his chest. It was a harbinger, that corporeal quake, a signal that he would be back for more. On those nights (like this very night) he would brush his lips, up and down over hers, softly, slowly, tenderly.

Then he would use his hands to cup her bottom, and scooch her up a little higher, so that their faces were on the level. But he wouldn't do anything more then that with his hands. His hands were merely the dumb minions of his mouth. All the while his lips would keep the painfully delicate rhythm, sweeping, up and down, up and down, up and down. It was reminiscent of an artist. The dewy, soft focus of the impressionist's brush, filling a huge canvas, but not with a lively scene, only with sky. Upon her, he massaged a muted, mixed palette of; hydrangea petal blues, picked cotton grays, and soaring dove whites. Up and down, up and down, up and down.

Alex relished this teasing. She never tried to seize him or deepen it. She just cherished the subtlety of that masterful movement. There was so much nuance to treasure. The engorgement of their lips. The warm blush of red. The moisture that made them all slick and shiny. And then she moaned because _dammit, it was good._ And with that sound, a change in the intensity would arrive. Like an easel she would pitch away, and he would use the void to slip easily to his side. The result? Both bodies comfortably on the couch. An aerial view would show them, as narrow slices, front to front, joined only at the mouth. They might've just been heads for all the interest they showed below the neck. All of their intention channeled into a sweet cornucopia of kisses.

Now his lips pressed a little harder. Now she responded by opening her mouth, a crack at first, then a little more, then a little more. Then came the first incursion of his tongue. The tongue, our only accessible internal organ. Bobby's tongue was supple and tentative. When it stroked hers, it raised all of her flesh, from the follicles of her scalp to her toenail beds. Alex shuddered. He felt it. Her electrical current nipped at his lips and flowed through his body.

He opened her wider.

This was exactly the moment when the subtle slip and slide, turned into a rabid feast. Their teeth clanked. Their noses bumped. Alex felt as if she were lost a hundred fathoms deep and he was the nozzle that fed her pure oxygen. She had a coherent thought at that moment, that maybe she was on the trail of something. Something _more_ than carnal pleasure. His soul? Kisses like this seemed to indicate that the mouth was the seat of the soul.

They groaned together, a guttural mash up that sounded a lot like "Bob-Lex."

She reached breaking point first. She brought them back to baser places. Her hands turned into spreaders. One pushing up his shirt, the other pushing down the elastic waist of his pyjama pants. He laughed all throaty and raw.

"What are you doing?"

"Stop playing around Goren."

"Best. Kiss. _Ever_." He said though love bruised lips.

"Best kiss ever." She echoed, mouth numb and mind blank.

"Very tantric." There'd been a _steel_ _beam _in his briefs for almost 2 hours.

"Yeah, now I want my prize." She sounded like a child at the fair. While a very adult hand rode the length of his penis.

"So aggressive."

"Don't you want me too?" She slithered atop him. She pressed hot, wet lips to his eyelids, his nose, the wave of his brow, his temple, his ears, to the parenthesis that creased him when he smiled.

"I passed _want_ 45 minutes ago." He whispered.

This was the _best_ kind of night. When the art of the kiss, gave way to the art of lovemaking, but in no considerable rush. No phones rang, and no babies cried, there was no knock at the door, no psychos in the closet. Together they held a pure note, a collective amnesia of any ill will in the world.

"Let's go to bed." He said rising up slowly with her still atop him. They were stiff, a pair of 'mummy lovers' breaking out of the crypt. He clamped an arm at her waist and set her down on his feet, moving straight legged. First walking them to the TV, where he punched the power button. Then a few more steps to the light switch, where he flicked both down. Then he shuffled robotically down the hall, still indulging occasionally in her mouth. Alex clung tight, a necklace and belt made of flesh.

About a month ago, one random weekday morning, he'd looked up at her from his buttered bagel, with great trepidation, and rushed out. "Nicole called me. Nicole is alive. Nicole knows about Jude." He'd felt such a release, sharing the agony of it with her. Alex had frozen. Her hand locked to the handle of the fridge. With her back to him she fought panic. There was an inevitability she couldn't deny. Some part of her had been waiting for those words. Nicole was a demonic detective with 9 lives. At last Alex turned, with great philosophical weight and said,

"We can't give up and die. We can't _not_ leave him. We just have to do our best. We just have to live." There was a fine combination of resignation and hope in her speech. It had affected Bobby deeply. She was a teacher. She was teaching him about unconditional love (love in the face of any condition).

But back to the art of the kiss.

He pressed his face to hers. It was intoxicating. Bobby had no idea how loving someone could be _this good_. He knew _why_, Alex was amazing, who wouldn't love her. But he wanted to know _how_ his love looked from the inside, out. What was happening in his muscles? His heart? His brain? What made made him crave her with this addicted delirium? He knew about the mechanics of addiction. He knew that a drug, like coke, would hook straight into the brain's reward system, flooding the nucleus accumbens with dopamine. He had read about the hippocampus, that held onto that swift intense satisfaction. He knew all about the amygdala, and the way it trained a person to respond to that stimuli ever after. _**But it has to be more then that. It has to be more than biology. **__This_ _feeling_ wasn't about chemicals and meat. It couldn't be. And because at that moment he felt blocked, thwarted by his own mortal limitations, he kissed her hard.

"Ouch." She said softly. The crush of his mouth was a creating an uncomfortable tension along the length of her body.

"I've lost my mind." He said and nuzzled her nose with his.

"Don't worry, I found it." She whispered back. "I'll keep it safe."

_**God he loved her. **_What precision.

What had he done to deserve something _this good_. It got him thinking again, as he drew rhythmically on her tongue, that there really was no reward system. There was no judgment. There was no universal retribution. It got him thinking that Alex was right, life was a meritocracy. He tried to let her wet, sticky lips change his core beliefs. He tried to kiss her so deeply that he found his own reconciliation. But he doubted it, Robert Goren still believed in fate and damnation, so he would likely go back to being himself after this kiss.

But this kiss was _far_ from over.

Bobby managed (through no mean feat) to stay with Alex, to not to get lost in the esoteric weeds. He managed to come back to her lips, and to her soft curves and to the scent of her arousal. He treasured her heaviness, her realness, and her sanity. He slid his mouth down the column of her neck on the cusp of their bedroom. He drew on her rubbery lower lip inside the doorframe. He put his whole tongue in her mouth, on the parquet floor beside their bed. And he rested his expression on hers the moment before he entered her body.

* * *

In the morning they made an idyllic commute into work, gently rocking on a subway car, sandwiched together like silent siamese twins. He dangerously took her hand in his, he hid the knot of their fingers under the flap of his overcoat.

They had an equally idyllic introduction to 1PP. Weaving through the bullpen together (staggered start be damned) pulling off their coats, like it was a synchronized sport. Goren fetched their coffees, setting down two steaming paper cups. It seemed that they even took their sips in rounds, him, then her, then him, repeat until dregs. This morning they were caseless, trial-less and calm. It was a magical troika. And a welcome change. Goren indulged in the luxury of a little thumb twiddling, then he added a dash of net surfing. At last he looked at Eames.

"You want to put odds on the next one." He asked her, his face smooth and clear. She detected a hint of amusement. Betting on murder.

"Content or timing?" She leaned in over her desk.

"Timing." He teased with his eyes. Gathering up a scatter of old sheets and files into a neat pile.

"10:45." She twinkled back, and looked at her watch it was 9:50. "Give or take 10 minutes. And I think it's a car accident." She got brazen, "Twenty bucks, double or nothing."

'Whoa. Confidence." He sat back, rocking on worn springs, as she upped the ante on a bet she hadn't even won.

"Nothin' wrong with that."

"Okay. I'll take that bet. And I'll take your $40." He squinted. He wondered if she had some secret insider information. A news feed running to her ear, or an email from Deakins. "You wouldn't be running a con on me would you Eames?"

"Don't you trust me Goren?" She raised her brows, then stood, turned and walked off shaking her tiny ass in heels and snug brown corduroy. He was caught in limbo. A uncomfortable vacillation between watching her go, and watching his pile of sheets. Watching her ass to watching paper. Dynamic to static. Dynamic to static. _**She's slender**_ he realized then. Even more so then before Jude. Her weight loss had happened so incrementally that he hadn't noticed, until last night, until he'd run his palms over her taut tummy and up the inside of her muscular thighs, until she'd wrapped her legs around his hips and clenched. She was tight. Inside and out. His pants tented. He let his legs fall open. He willed away an inappropriate rush of blood.

Just then the energy shifted. There was a flurry of fingers over keyboards, invisible rods got rammed under suit jackets. And Deakins swept in, extremely late. "Some guy got a flat on the Verrazano." The captain radiated irritation. "Mornin'" He added, as a perfunctory afterthought. And that wilted Goren immediately. There was nothing more unsexy than Deakins and traffic.

At 10:42 they caught one, and as they rode elevator down to the parking garage she held out her hand, "20 bucks please."

"Uh I don't think so, some shark doubled it."

"Well open the file, read the brief." She urged.

"Nope I'm not gonna rush. I'll read it to you on the way, like I always do." He tightened his fingers on it.

"Whatever." She snorted. But 20 minutes later she was palming a cool 40. He couldn't believe it. And he couldn't believe she'd actually taken his hard earned money.

"I'll give it to you." He said "Even though your definition of accident is questionable."

She sniffed the air. "I smell sour grapes. Re-read the 911 transcript it was called in as _an accident _on route 55." And she crinkled her fresh bills in victory.

"Just so you know," He nodded at her winnings. "We need milk, eggs, butter and frosted flakes…"

She laughed "Your cereal? You're the only one who eats frosted flakes."

He shrugged.

"I think I'll buy myself something pretty instead." She maneuvered onto the gravel shoulder, 100 yards from the shell of the burnt out Convoy. She eyed the horde of first responders and strapped on her game face. They piled out of the Explorer and right into the thickest part of it. Eames panned the crowd for their contact.

"Got a real mess here, three kids dead. The fourth, a little boy, was taken to university hospital with the mom." Detective Choi said leading them up to the wreckage.

"The dad?" Eames asked.

"Paul Whitlock, the car's registered to him, he's on his way to the hospital."

"The boy and his mother were pulled out of the car?" Goren asked circling the metal shell.

"No they were found here unconscious, they went through the windshield. It's a miracle the blast didn't kill them all."

"Anybody see it happen?" Eames asked.

"No this is a quiet road."

Goren pilfered a silver pen from the Detective's lapel, and used it to prod the gap in the car door. "Glass is inside the panels. The windows were open. That would have reduced the force of the blast in the front, that's probably why they survived."

"These little ones never stood a chance. _Three_ child seats. It's a tight fit. This can't be their usual car." Alex felt a cold shiver as she said it. Someone was walking over her grave. And given what she now knew, about the specific dangers lurking, about Nicole, she felt certain it was a message. It had to be; Staten Island, a car with baby seats lined up three deep, a single female caregiver.

Her detective eyes processed the cheery yellow plastic tarps, but beyond that, her x-ray imagination looked into that blackened shell, and saw the charred remains of Jude, Annabelle and Chloe. She saw their burnt innocent forms. She saw the rigor of bones fused with melted flesh. She knew that this was exactly how the children would look on a day of errands in the back of her Civic.

"Pipe bomb under the gas tank." The bomb squad guy informed them. "We'll test the soot sample but my guess is they packed it with fertilizer."

"Someone would have had to go underneath the car to plant it." Goren speculated obliviously. "Do you know where their last stop was?"

"Gas station about a half mile away."

* * *

In the SUV Goren was abruptly shaken from the zone by a distinct lack of symbiotic energy. The zone was very lonely alone. He zeroed in on Eames suddenly _seeing_ her. He tilted his head trying to comprehend the display before him. She was breathing hard and quick. Her fingers trembled on the key in the ignition. It didn't take a genius to see that she was drawing all kinds of bright fluorescent lines in her head. Parallels and connections that had nothing to do with the case at hand. She was in a frenzy of maternal fear. He was in a bubble of paternal oblivion.

"What?" He asked and she told him.

He hadn't even considered the vague similarities of circumstance that she was presenting. Worse still, Alex wanted to head straight for Liz's. He talked her down. "We'll lose the continuity." He put a steady hand on her wobbly arm. "If we go all the way to Huguenot first, we'll lose hours and when we get back, we'll get sketchy recollections, and bogus filler stories. We _need_ to get the eyewitness evidence _now_."

"But it feels like a message." Alex said, a double crease in her brow, and a fear in her eyes. Her chest heaved like she'd run a triathlon.

"Calm down. It's not her. It's not Nicole. It doesn't _feel_ like Nicole. This _feels_ angsty. Nicole is methodical, playful even." Alex shot him a dirty look at that, which he ignored. He leaned in and spoke as if settling a mare. "Jude is fine. Call Adeline. I'm positive _he's fine."_

She did call the nanny, before he'd finished speaking. Adeline sounded normal. There was no distress in her high musical voice, no indication of duress, no stumbling speech, no non-sequiturs. And so Alex acquiesced to Bobby, and to the job. What he wanted was logical and she had a hard time bucking logic. Logic was where she lived. But it wasn't what she wanted from him today. (For once) she _wanted_ all of his random troublesome fervour. She _wanted_ him to damn the job. She wanted one of his wild intuitive leaps. One of his possessed passionate displays, themed 'fuck everything but my baby.' But he wasn't a mother, he was a father, and father's were master compartmentalizers.

Alex felt self righteous as she steered the SUV away from instinct and toward the evidence. As if all his calm, were an indictment on her femininity. As if his even, sure, temperament; _**Mr. Blank face and navy suit**_, were calling her out as the weaker sex. _**So what if I'm losing my shit.**_ It was her prerogative to imagine Jude choking on a grape, or toddling into traffic or getting into a windowless brown van on his way home from school. It was every mother's prerogative. Wasn't it all those hysterical little trips that had perpetuated the species?

She gritted her teeth and pulled into the Quick Gas.

* * *

Alex didn't really feel her pulse settle, until almost two hours later, when she was cross legged on Liz's shaggy mohair rug, with an enthusiastic Jude crawling all over her. The baby clearly sensed an anomaly, access to mommy while the sun still shone. And from this cosy, secure, vantage, perhaps it was kismet (and not a dark omen) that had brought them here. After all, Goren and Eames had probably caught all of two cases on Staten Island, ever. Apparently crime on this side of the harbour was very pedestrian.

Jude's bowed baby lips planted wet kisses on his mother's face (she kept asking for them) and she gave them back, pressing to the crook of his neck, smelling the sweetness of her milk in his pores and the faint aroma of peach purée on his cheeks. All the while, his aggressive little hands tugged her sweater down, revealing the lacy scalloped edge of her bra. For Alex laughter was the only response to an affectionate mauling. "I love you." She giggled stroking his small dark head, and smoothing back a character cowlick, marvelling at the boy she saw emerging right there before her eyes.

"We have a case here." Bobby explained quietly to Adeline, watching the loving scene. "It hit close to home." He moved his head restlessly. As if it were trying to escape it's stem. He hoped that she would grasp the depth of the situation from his agitated mime. She did.

"Children?" She asked and he nodded.

During the extensive search for a nanny, Adeline had been their only intuitive candidate. While the rest of the parents had poured over resumes, Alex and Bobby had given the sheets of paper only a cursory glance. They'd felt secure. Knowing Liz's eagle eyes wouldn't let even the most minute referential or chronological discrepancy pass. Liz, had the petty zealousness of a Nazi fact checker. And she delivered her findings with the emotional sensitivity of a sociopath (or so Bobby thought).

The detectives privately agreed to proceed with a secret criteria. They lived and died by their instincts, so it made sense, that they look for similar traits in their nanny. Bobby had lobbed the candidates questions, straight from the pages of the iQ2, the 'intuition quotient test'. Questions that had baffled Liz, and Bill, and Julia, and Jack. Questions that had made their fellow parents shift, and clench their bums in their seats. Questions that had gotten, Bobby especially, all kinds of glares of discomfort. Maybe because of his signature disjointed delivery, and fitful turns around the interrogation… Uh… living room. Goren's nanny interview process involved, prompting candidates to fill in the details of fragmented stories, asking them to estimate outcomes, and finally to decipher Gestalt imagery.

Today Bobby patted himself on the back. Adeline was good. He felt it. They'd pulled into the driveway unexpectedly, to find her in the garage stripping off pint sized mitts, and coats and kissing rosy cheeks after a long walk.

"Hello." She'd called out cheerfully. "I didn't expect you today."

Adeline was an attractive young woman of twenty-five, with a first name that was turn of the century gem (on the cutting edge of a hipster resurgence) and a last name, MacGregor, that was as comfortable on her, as Clansman in the Scottish highlands. She had dark hair, and narrow features, which she capped with bold red framed glasses - fun, but not too fun. They emphasized her refined, studious look. She dressed prudently. That was how Bobby described it, a blend of modest sweater sets, tweed blazers over t-shirts, and finely patterned blouses (small flower motifs were her favourite). All of it usually paired with distressed jeans. Those earthy bottoms, told Bobby that her knees weren't too precious for a game on the floor. Business on top, party on the bottom.

All of this silently collected data, was why Bobby felt comfortable at this moment, standing in the shadow of Alex's breastfeeding form, saying "We're on edge right now. We do a dangerous job." The woman nodded. He continued. "I need you to trust your gut with all matters of safety. And, if you _ever_ see this woman, _please_ call the local police." He pulled a photocopy of Nicole's mug out of his binder and gave it to the caregiver. Deftly flipping it over for her to see the names and numbers he'd written on the back. "Use the name Detective Radley, he works on the island and he knows the score. It's his private number and his work extension. Then call us. Don't _ever_ engage her. Don't _ever_ approach her. _Just secure the children_." He couldn't be emphatic enough.

She nodded with large round eyes, like her head might come off. And Goren feared, watching that wild bobble, that she would wait for the end of her shift and quit with cause. Citing that the big, crazy, cop had scared her shitless. "What I'm telling you is emergency evasive action. It probably won't happen." He added quickly. "I don't mean to frighten you."

"I'm not." She said looked at him with an unflinching grey gaze. _**Reduced fear response **_he thought, adding it to her myriad attributes. "I know what to do Mr. Goren." She said and he believed her, there was mettle there.

Goren thought about the mystery of Adeline long after they'd left. He bounced along beside Eames and pondered the young woman's dedication to this modestly paid job. Bobby was most content when pondering people's personalities. He wondered why she wasn't afraid. Perhaps the oddest, was that he couldn't understand in her the very devotion that governed his own life. Protection of the innocent.

In the detective's musings sat the naked solipsistic irony of the human condition. We can only truly know ourselves, and yet we blindly project those traits over everyone we meet, endlessly observing (in essence) our own personality and conceptions, over and over - with curiosity or derision. The best Bobby could figure was that some people were looking for meaning, a moral imperative, or a civic or summons, or a national calling, and when it presented they felt duty bound.

Looking across the gear shift at his lover's relaxed profile, Bobby was certain of one thing, he and Alex were deeply grateful.

* * *

They were inside a small Brooklyn apartment.

It was 9pm.

And it was a mess.

Bobby knew it was all wrong the moment he started talking to Samil Al-Bana. But like a puppet his mouth had kept moving, and he'd leaned in aggressively. There were times when the momentum of the interrogation: the cadre of cops, the mandate to _**Step into them, ****hard**,_ propelled everything. It negated common sense. Watching this Arab family (from a spot comfortably outside his body) Bobby knew that their terror and outrage were authentic. But he had to see it through. The suspect, Al-Bana was agitated and foreign, a damning combination. His eyes were wild. There was tension in the muscles under his striped shirt. He was a fighter, but a fighter only a hair away from flight.

"You were seen at a gas station on Staten Island this morning." Goren said evenly.

"Yes we were lost."

"There was a woman with 4 children in a car, someone saw you approach it." He kept his voice low and steady. The chaos in the small room had Goren's teeth on edge. The cops, the wife, the kids, _Eames_. He and his partner weren't always simpatico. Sometimes her adrenaline and anger ratcheted up the tension, too much.

"Someone saw you do this," Eames sliced harshly at her throat, "we know what that means!" Goren shot her a look of annoyance. He hated it when she took their marching orders too literally. _**Step into them, hard. **_She knew how to be hard alright. Currently he felt soft, he generally preferred soft. He thought some redneck part of her enjoyed the inequity, enjoyed making people fearful and small. Eames wasn't bad, but she was entitled. "Absolute power corrupts absolutely," The thought sprang to his mind unbidden.

The only prize at the end the interrogation/raid was perspective. Goren walked out of the house. He spat a thick wad of congestion into the boxwood bushes beside the front door. Toxic phlegm. At least SWAT hadn't gotten trigger happy. Small mercies. That was always a danger. Men trained to use big guns liked to shoot them, go figure.

"Principal at the school confirmed that they were there." Eames announced joining him on the driveway, her face lit by the flickering red bulb of an idling cruiser.

"We had to take this all the way." Deakins rationalised and Bobby caught a whiff of chagrin.

When the detectives were alone, Goren speculated, "What Doreen Whitlock told her son. People don't get what they deserve. Paul made a point of telling us that he wasn't put in charge of the land mine project."

"Office politics, it makes some people go postal." Eames quipped.

"Yeah." He turned with her, and brooded his way down Prescott Place toward the SUV.

"What's wrong." She asked at last. There was something off in him.

"That." He gestured back at the house they'd left. "Was a xenophobic dead end."

"English genius." She cracked.

He smiled. "Racist bullshit."

She shrugged, keeping pace on the dark sidewalk, lengthening her stride. "We're racist so everyone else doesn't have to be." She reasoned.

"But they still are." He said, looking down at her and frowning. Sometimes he saw them as reactionaries. As the arms of a paranoid state. Or as a manifestation that counterbalanced people's nightmares. Neither of those things was very comforting. Neither of them made him feel very good about his work.

"Not all of them."

"I'll give you that." He said, "not everyone is a racist. But still, there's a flaw in your logic."

"What?" Alex had avenues she travelled to deal with the things they did. Deep introspection was not one of them.

"Your justification condones racial profiling. The NYPD could end up a haven for bad apples. People that carry out an agenda with badges and guns."

She shrugged again. "Is that what we are?"

"No. But not everyone is like us."

"True. But we can't consider them. Only us. We take it to the conclusion, we follow the evidence regardless of the optics. Because for us it's about justice."

He raised an eyebrow. "By any means necessary?"

"Well, not any. We have our limits. Legal and moral."

"When does the greater good eclipse civil liberties?" He asked. Goren did this often. He used her. He tried to crawl into her conscience. When ever he felt raw or ragged, he turned to Eames because her compass was unwavering.

"When you're an illegal. When you're a viable suspect in an active investigation."

He nodded. Both were comforting loopholes. But Bobby still wrestled with the guilt of stepping on innocents, perhaps since Dan Croydon, his personal catalyst to enlightenment. It seemed like the 'not so innocent' got both sympathy and due process, by virtue of birth and privilege. He felt especially sickened now. Now that it was starting to look like, a white, suburban couple had snapped and roasted their babies. He supposed if he were Alex, he'd be firmly focused on the clarity they'd achieved this evening. If he were Alex, he would have eyes trained on their mission. It _had_ pushed the case along after all, this night _had_ focused them.

But he couldn't let it go. He was drawn to frailty. And to moral ambiguity. And to pain.

* * *

"I want you people off my property." Paul Whitlock demanded.

"Your wife had postpartum depression. She never got treatment. She never took her medication. She's suicidal." Each subsequent statement ratcheted upward, until Eames sounded apoplectic in her efforts to be heard. But Paul Whitlock clung to his door frame and the higher ground.

"Everything, everything I do is for my family! I can take care of Doreen here! If you have any other theories talk to my lawyer." He said and slammed the door in their faces.

"I don't know about you, but that guy is starting to stick in my craw." Eames ranted for the both of them.

Goren stood in the centre of the cul de sac and spun around like the second hand on a clockface. He ticked off a minute using the houses as markers, surveying the closed garage doors and darkened windows. The buildings looked catatonic. The lack of life was post-apocalyptic. And in a revelation he saw the deeper implications of this life on Doreen Whitlock. He saw a systematic removal of her autonomy. He intuited her diminishing self worth. He lamented her lack human contact. It was all there in her husband's demeanour and the street they lived on.

"This place, this place, this dead end street. Houses that sit empty all day." He said aloud.

"You can hear a blade of grass fall over." Eames got it.

"She was kept cooped up in there. Four little boys, no breaks, no help, all according to his design."

"Maybe he plans on punishing her according to his design too." Eames added.

"We need to get a squad car, let him know we're watching."

She nodded at Goren, and then shook her head at the Whitlock residence. The double action made her indignant chin go every which way. She looked with venom at the closed white front door. She thought of Doreen, a boneless sobbing heap sitting in her boy's closet - probably sniffing their clothes, and then she thought of Paul reading the newspaper in his comfy chair. _**That smug jagoff. **_

This squad car Bobby had proposed was definitely a moral liberty. They had no legal grounds for it. She knew they would have to answer for the requisition of a uni and squad car, for someone who hadn't technically done anything illegal. But she also knew that sometimes the fear they could instill in a bad actor, was worth being held to account. Then she wondered if Bobby were trying to make amends for their unjust interrogation of the Arab family the previous night. She wondered if he were now trying to save (the remains of) another family to allay karma. The thought annoyed her. Karma was bullshit. There was only here and now.

**_Doreen Whitlock._**

_**What the hell did you do?**_

It was horrific for Alex to consider this filicide. To consider a mother hurting her babies. And yet she couldn't roundly condemn the woman, which surprised her. Eames was good at eliminating sympathy for the vicious. She was perhaps even more ruthless at doing it then her male counterparts. It hadn't come naturally, she had systematically trained away her sympathies to survive on the job. She had once been a big ball of feminine goo. Now she was strong, self sufficient, discerning and self righteous.

Eames tried to imagine what she might have been without the job. She tried to imagine herself, had she and Joe gotten pregnant right away. Had they started churning out rugrats on the regular. She wouldn't have become a cop, that's for sure. Maybe he wouldn't have died. After all, no action existed in isolation. She saw life as a chain effect, each reaction following on from the most minute detail. Having children with Joe would have been a game changer. He might have stayed home more, or passed up his promotion, or even passed up the Minaya case. The case that had killed him.

Then, no doubt, she would have been Alexandra Dutton, happy little homemaker. Or, if Doreen Whitlock was any measure of stay-at-home-moms, _homicidal_ little homemaker. Alex couldn't imagine life without stimulation, without her blood pumping and boiling. She couldn't imagine not drawing a gun, and not driving 4 hours a day. She couldn't imagine taking every ounce of her joy from an unintelligible tiny human being. She loved Jude. Of course, she loved her son more then life itself. But while she could extrapolate her idea of a mother's love to all mothers, on issues of homemaking she was totally blind, blinded by her career path and her ambition.

So she channeled her rage outward. But not at this woman, _this perp_, _this mother, _who had taken such drastic unforgivable action. Instead Eames raged at her useless husband. Her oppressor. It was a comfortable idea; women were always at the whims of a man. And in this case the worst kind of man, an evil plotter, one who aimed, with a chamber full of his impotence and regret, directly at his wife.

_**Disgusting pig. **_

Alex knew she had issues.

She knew that she could be a feminist bomb, indiscriminate, taking _all men_ out at the knees.

But Eames also knew, that like her male partner, her issues solved cases.

* * *

Doreen Whitlock was a danger to herself.

They had her committed to the psychiatric ward at Bellevue.

This woman seemed fated to constantly lose her autonomy.

She allocuted to Goren and Eames before doing it in front of the judge. It was an organic process. She spoke to them without the coercion or duplicity so common in take downs. Hers was simply the unburdening of a heavy soul. She wasn't a criminal in that instant, she was a congregant seeking absolution from her pastors. And by extension from God.

This was the saddest Alex had ever been at work. And that was saying something. She had endured had a lot of job-related misery over the years, moments filled with loss and reprimand. But they had been as a consequence. This was different, this was intrinsic. She had never been touched in such an elemental way by the words of a perpetrator. The woman in front of her was a shell. Her flesh was torn, her hair malnourished, her face contorted, and every pore leaked shame and grief.

"I tried, I tried, I tried…. but I couldn't… I just wanted them to go to heaven. I'd be a better mother in heaven... I would... I told Adam he'd see. I told him it will be worth it when we get there."

Alex agreed. It was hard dammit. Doreen was right. Mothering _was_ the thing you tried, and tried, and tried to do properly, and never once got confirmation that you'd succeeded. When they had grown and flown and made hash or success, it was a mother who was left standing in an empty nest, wondering if half the efforts would have resulted in twice the man. Or if twice the effort could have saved a lost soul. There was no guidance, and there were no definitive answers.

Frances Goren, Doreen Whitlock, Barbara Eames. Alex bookended the perp with their own moms, because was no light in Bellevue that day. Was it always a zero sum game? Was it always suffering? Did you always lose your mind, or steal their lives, or leave them behind. Were those the only choices?

Then what was it all for?

Really. What was it all for?

The dark, powerful, existential questions made her turn away briefly, they made her throat lock up. The whole time her phantom fingers clenched and unclenched, willing Jude to materialize. To soothe her tumult. And yet, without him she had a greater understanding of the circle of life. She, and every mother before and to-be, were merely conduits. An entry point for the next wave of humanity.

Mary's Magnificat, Doreen's agony, her own clarity, there was a theme. The height of human glory and pain. That we, with wombs, might be so intimately divinely joined to another, while simultaneously understanding it as a temporal gift on a solitary journey.

* * *

"Goren, Eames! My office. NOW!"

The squad room stopped, in a comical freeze frame facsimile of productivity. The captain was _screeching_. Those two surnames, had been bellowed from that particular office more then most, but today there was a twist of hysteria in the scream. It was a tone that no one in the bullpen had ever heard before. Bobby and Alex, the subjects of the freak out, looked at each other sharply across their desks, pulling up straight. In a millisecond they had a complete conversation with their eyes. It went something like:

_**What the fuck!**_

_**The case didn't go perfectly, but we got the bad guy.**_

_**Sort of. **_

The lingering discomfort about the details of the Whitlock case, lay firmly in the realm of justice (that elusive lady) not the statutes. They'd gotten the perpetrator, just not the instigator. But Jimmy Deakins had proven on many other cases, that he wasn't bothered by such moral nuance. Not because he was a bad man, only because, like an accountant he had a bottomline. Should a bookkeeper trouble themselves with numerical irregularities? Maybe… The fact of the matter was that on its summary page, the Whitlock case had a 'closed' stamp. The letter of the law had been observed. Someone would go to jail. It would sit firmly in the win column.

_**So what the hell is his problem?**_

_**It's something else.**_

_**Play dumb.**_

The detectives rose, in the ghostly tandem of the once condemned, now dead (and sentenced to relive their downfall for eternity). They floated to the captain's office. They sat without a word, and the door slammed shut with such a force that it kicked up an angry draft. Everything lightweight thrust up, and then fluttered down again.

Then Deakins sat too, only he settled above them on his desk. He perched on that mount, his dour face carved into a stony craig. His rage was there, but only in the manic flicking of his leg, back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum. The limb wasn't loose and limber, it moved with military march precision. "Listen to this." He growled reaching back to activate the speakerphone. He jabbed into his voicemail. Goren and Eames waited, clenched from head to toe. They waited through the intro, then they waited for the category selection, then they waited for the passcode, then they waited through the robotic number of new messages. They waited with lumps in their throats, chests, guts, legs, ankles, because this was highly unorthodox behaviour from their captain, and because the waiting was a cancer.

"Hello James." The lilt of a feminine English accent rang out, an unmistakeable bell tone, for the three people who most loathed it in the world. "My dear captain, forgive the familiarity but I feel like we're old friends. I'm calling your private number with a matter of the utmost urgency."

It was Nicole.

Two pairs of detective first grade lips were bitten in unison. She got right to the point.

"I wonder, do you know what your detective's are up to? A little birdie told me that a couple them are behaving very badly. I don't like to tell tales, but I think that every person sworn to serve and protect, should live their own lives with the utmost transparency and morality."

Deakins glared down at them.

"Your dream team, Detective Robert Goren and Detective Alexandra Eames, brace yourself, or maybe sit down. These two employees are living a double life. They are together in _every_ sense of the word. In the _biblical_ sense. They live in a cute little shack in Queens with their sweet baby. Yes, you heard correctly, _a baby_. A wee boy of 10 months. He favours his father. Dark hair, big brown eyes, absolutely adorable. I would hate to get anyone into trouble, but I felt I had a civic duty." The line went dead.

"Start talking." Deakins said fiercely.

Goren and Eames glanced at each other blankly for only a split second, because they gone over this, (and every other eventuality) about a million times, not unlike school children in the 60s running drills in case of nuclear war. 'Deny, deny, deny,' their strategy, was just as flimsy as 'duck and cover.'

"She's insane." Bobby began.

"She's fixated on Goren." Alex added coolly, "You know how she is, she's a nightmare."

"She wants our jobs she hasn't made any secret about her animosity, or her intentions." Goren took his turn.

"She's a psychopath." Alex finished.

Deakins rose stiffly from his desk. He went around the room on a slow meandering path, first behind them, then around his desk, until he stopped in front of the largest window. He began twisting each Lucite rod, with deliberate pivots of the wrist. The cracks of light coming through the horizontal blinds began to disappear. Goren and Eames looked at each other. He didn't want witnesses. With his back to them he spoke low and slow. "Cut the crap."

Silence.

"I said cut the crap!" He yelled.

They blinked.

"Okay if you can't stop lying, I'll tell you what I know. I know that you two are in a relationship, I know that you're engaged, I know that you're living together, and I _had_ recently come to suspect that the surrogacy was a ruse. If I'm right blink twice." Instead of waiting he went on a tear. "Goddammit! For two top-notch detectives you are such... You couldn't get a hotel room until the psychopath left town?" He slammed his fist into the metal casing.

They blinked again.

"Oh, come on, of course I know. I don't know if anyone else cares enough to figure it out, but I do. I have to know everything that goes on in MCS. Or else how can I dig my detectives out of a pile of _shit_ like this one."

Eames reached over and touched Goren's arm. Signifying that the jig was up. "What can we expect? Tell us straight. Disciplinary? Dissolution of the partnership? Demotion? All of the above?"

She knew that Bobby had all the answers. He'd told her exactly what they could expect. And the latitude that the brass had. He had that whole code of conduct tucked away in his disgustingly large brain. But Alex wanted to know where their captain stood on the spectrum of punishment.

But Goren surged to his feet, and began pacing furiously in a tight 3 foot by 3 foot space that wasn't occupied by people or furniture. Alex squinted up at him. "She knows." He said softly.

"Thanks genius." Deakins ground out. "News at 11, serial killer knows that the two detectives working her case are boinking."

"No. I mean she knows that you know." He stared down his captain, which could in any other instance be considered insubordination, but in the light of the fact that they were co-conspirators, it was more like a heads up. "This isn't a message for me or Eames. She would've just called me directly, she likes to play with me. This is a message for you. She knows that you are condoning fraternization, and she will pull the pin on that grenade when ever she wants. The question is will you do it first?" Goren huffed then shook his head and flexed his eyes. "It's quite ingenious really, the way she has us all by the balls."

"Payback." Eames muttered.

"No, just a game." Goren replied. "She loves her games, this is as benign as backgammon for her."

Deakins still hadn't faced them. He was looking squarely into the aluminum slats, as if he could actually see an armada of conquistadors coming over the horizon. He was eerily inert for a long, long time. Then he turned on a heel and looked stoically at his detectives. There was no discussion, there was no strategizing, only a solid executive decision.

He said, "This never happened. As you were."

Then he raised his hand and gestured them to the door.


	39. Chapter 39

**COLLECTIVE**

It was mid-morning, mid week, three days into a brand spanking new year. So far 2005 felt remarkably like auld lang syne. The sky threatened flurries, empty threats. None had fallen. At all. Not even through November or December. It was about that time, that block of boxes on the calendar, when morale started to drop, when the breeze got teeth, when the pavement began to mirror the sky, rendering the whole world in shades of blah à la 1PP.

They were driving (more déjà vu) somewhere in Jamaica, Queens. Rolling smoothly away from the home of Arnold Pierce, their bullet-riddled victim of mistaken aggression. They'd been called because it was a cop related shooting. For the time being Goren and Eames were the buffer between some trigger-happy uniforms and a reckoning with IA.

She broke the silence. "_What a winner."_

Goren turned fully in his seat, raised an eyebrow, and braced for Eames unplugged.

"That guy is lucky _any_ woman let him cop a feel, even a fake one."

"Is that your idea of a eulogy?" He asked, biting back a smile. She was going straight to hell, the body was still lukewarm. And she was aiming to drag him there with her. Alex shot sly eyes Bobby's way. Her pupils hung out in the corners, long enough to make sure, that today wasn't the day she finally offended him.

Nope. There was amusement.

_**Good. He always gets me.**_

"I'm just saying, all those toys messed with his puberty. They made him exploitable."

"I'll agree that it looks that way now." Goren was measured.

"I feel for the guys at the 1-oh-3. Bad shoot. But let's face it, this is about a man-child, who got his toys stolen. Barely even a major case."

"Well. You've got this thing all solved, dontcha." Goren said. Then he pulled out his cell and made a mock call. "Captain? Case closed. Yep… uh huh… Turns out the vic deserved it. Uh huh… Our prom queen here says he was too uncool to live."

Alex laughed. Maybe she was channeling high school. "I wouldn't go that far."

"I must have read you wrong." His lips twisted in a way that implied he was _never_ wrong.

"It was suffocating in that apartment. No light. The 80's called, they want their hunter green walls back. It was no way to live or die. Poor guy probably knew all the cashiers at Toys R Us." Alex knew that last one was reaching. The toys that had papered Pierce's shelves were vintage. Dense, unplayed-with, playthings, cradled in their original cardboard boxes. It was hard not appreciate them. There had been whittled wooden rocket ships with hand-painted details, blown glass orbs, metal robots - that'd once been poured, and peeled warm from individual moulds. Even the plain old plastic toys (like the Ray Gun clutched in the vic's pudgy palm) were prophetic. From one perspective, foreshadowing it's owners demise. From another, a corporate concept, someone's idea of a fantastical space aged future.

Hard to believe that that 'Jetson's' dream was the present. The very time and space these two jaded detectives were living. Real life could never compete with a vision. Alex thought then, that if Arnold Pierce's dusty relics had been presented in proper acrylic cases, under LED lighting, in a sterile white room, with glossy pamphlets, cutely called "The Future Remembered" or something you could dance to, people would have lined up and paid money. Context was everything.

But she was here to catalogue the facts.

And the fact was that Arnold Pierce had lived in strange obscurity.

She couldn't even imagine.

"I was a hobbyist once." Bobby admitted on cue, looking down at his binder. It lay open, bridging his thighs. "As a kid." Even now, he still found great comfort in inanimate groupings. The job didn't leave much time for proper collecting, so he was forced to hoard neckties, and pens, and books.

"Don't tell me, coins. No, baseball cards. No, wait, Canarsie in the 60s and 70s... Bottle caps. It was bottle caps." She crowed.

His silence was confirmation enough.

Robert O. Goren had been a card carrying junior member of the: International Crown Cap Collectors Society. They had a database of bottle cap collectors across the world. He'd been so proud. At 8 years old it had been the best pastime - it had been totally free, it complimented his independent streak, and it had been easy. The drunkards of the neighbourhood had kept him drowning in caps. In fact, there were so many lying around, that he could afford to be discriminating. _**Keep your stupid Budweiser Mr. Larson**_, he'd think, as hurled the quarter sized 'bullets' at his neighbour's back porch.

Boring drinking tastes aside, Bobby fondly remembered, spending the sweet spot - the hours between school and dinner - combing the shrubbery at the base of a local ravine. Because a good collector did reconnaissance, he knew that when darkness fell teenagers clogged up that scrubby valley. They cussed a lot, necked and endlessly cracked open six packs. In short, it was a goldmine.

Bobby's collection had been his pride and joy. He could still see them, hundreds of gleaming metal buttons with fluted edges, each one complete with a small corporate logo (that'd meant nothing to him really, unless they skewed his numbers, or said Coca-Cola). He'd lovingly glued them, side by each, to large pieces of Bristol board, ending up with poster sized displays of his manpower. The sheets of metal had made him feel _rich_. Really, what was the difference between jingle of coins in his mother's acid tulip change purse, and his grimy grocery bag full of metal tops? Even then he known, nothing. Nothing except a societal agreement. At that tender age Bobby had understood the power of collectives. In fact, he'd held onto his membership, a piece of cardstock and nostalgia, tucked into his wallet.

Today, sitting in their black, SUV, he stayed mum about the details. He rightly sensed an antagonist across the console. He was pretty certain that _**the only thing Alexandra Eames collected as a tween, were the tears of her victims. **_"I stand up for nerds." He said like it was a campaign slogan.

"You weren't a nerd." Alex looked him up and down with a trained eye. She was positive of that much.

"How could you possibly know that? Does your tiara stun and disorient them?"

"Oh shut up! I'm sorry I ever told you."

"_Oh_, but you did." That prom queen tidbit had been paying dividends since the moment she'd said it.

"I know you weren't a nerd because you're hot."

"Hot?" He repeated, it as though he'd tasted something bad.

"Yeah. Hot. Plus tall and mysterious. With your family dynamics you were definitely mysterious."

"Tall?"

"Of course, chicks dig tall guys."

"Dig? Your age is showing."

She ignored that. "I peg you for a loner."

Goren sat back. The disputable fact of his '_hotness'_ aside, she wasn't wrong. He had liked to be alone. He'd found, at an early age, that solitude was better then explaining why his mother was so fucking weird. By the time he'd crested the rise of manhood, going his own way had become a firmly embedded character trait. Still, he shifted a little under her home truths. "Being profiled is uncomfortable."

"But I'm right about you." Eames nodded with certainty. She thought about the high school cafeteria, about the guys alone with a book and a tray, they weren't usually targets. "Loner isn't a bad level."

"You make it sound like there was an actual stratum." He said. His odd mind saw a slice of continental shield under the high school, made up of layers of fossilized teens.

"A hierarchy you mean? There was. Haven't you ever heard of it?" She ticked them off on her fingers. "Freaks, geeks, loners, jocks and popular. Or in reverse: cool, pretty cool, pretty lame, loser, dead."

He groaned. "It's Maslow's pyramid of needs, as a vicious adolescent caste system."

"What? Huh?" She frowned at him.

"Nothing. So you think the vic was…"

"A geek, definitely."

He sighed, "_I was going_ _to say,_ you think this is _only_ about the collectibles."

She nodded. "That would make his killer a woman. Probably from the popular category."

"Are we going to keep using this analogy?" Bobby sighed. He had hated high school. Oh, he'd been bulletproof enough, too big to be bullied, too preoccupied to care. But still, the memories made him cringe, like recalling a mistake. He'd succeeded, over the last 27 years, at almost never thinking about it. In that world he'd been a blade of grass. Totally anonymous, walking the streets of Canarsie in all his teenaged ubiquity. Whipped back and forth by the breeze at school. Stepped on by his family at home. He had been so devoid of personal power as a child.

So he focused on Alex. Zooming in tight, until only her head and shoulders filled his field of view. It was intriguing how differently she saw it. Donning her perspective, and shedding his own, was invigorating. "Do you consider high school your glory days?" He asked.

"Not exactly." She said, turning the steering wheel very deliberately, hand over hand.

"What exactly?"

"I remember being secure." She said shortly.

"How so?"

"I knew my place in the world. I knew my friends. I had good parents. I had very typical siblings. I was cuter, definitely." She shot him a chagrinned look. "This height and these features, they fit perfectly on a teenage body. I had better hair, better skin. I understood the world."

"You mean you ruled the world."

She shrugged.

"And not the real world just a sanitized, microcosm of it."

"Whatever. It was easy. This is a mess." She gestured out the windshield at the city. Alex thought of her mom. During her teen years, the Eames matriarch had had a part time job keeping the books for Linley's Ladies Apparel. The hours had allowed her to see her kids off to school. And then have snacks ready when they arrived home. As a student, and a middle child, Alex had been comfortably flanked by her sister and brother. Liz a freshman, Jack a senior (for the second time, he'd been no great academic). But that detail had been irrelevant to her. There was something special, a status, in having a world wise older brother. "Wasn't Frank two years older then you too?"

"Three. And Frank ditched… _A lot._" Bobby set her straight on that score. Frank hadn't even finished high school. He'd gotten his GED years later. Not that he'd been dumb. He'd been high or absent most days. And, he'd been too popular, at least in his slacker circles. In his twenties (during a rare stretch of lucidity) Frank had gotten a trade school diploma, a two year course in computer science for IT. But nothing with Frank had ever been easy or linear.

Alex didn't even hear the defeat in his tone, it was eclipsed by her own wistfulness. And by the thrill at being admitted into his confidences. It was a rare treat. She savoured the information as it dribbled from him. And she shared a little more about herself, for balance. "My dad was a PD liaison to the high school."

"They have those?" Bobby mused, tongue in cheek. He knew all about department/youth outreach programs, but he'd learned about them as a cop, not a kid.

"The school board had a program that paired officers from the local precinct with each school. It was a community initiative, a crime prevention thing. I didn't think about it much at the time. I probably thought it was normal." She smiled nostalgically. "Now I get how unique it was. Anyway, my dad and his partner were around a lot. Everyone knew them."

Bobby considered the ramifications of that. It must have spiked her celebrity, for good or ill. No publicity was bad publicity. He looked at her. Her pixie profile, her wispy shoulder length hair, the subtle houndstooth pattern of her charcoal coat. And suddenly he _really_ saw her, both her truth, and the NYPD facade. She didn't come by her leathery exterior naturally, it had evolved sometime after high school. Now he understood her descriptor of that time: secure. An oddly apt word. For Alex, those years stood in stark relief to a present filled with widowhood, and criminality, and star-crossed love affairs. Alex had once been nestled between her siblings, guarded by her father, at the top of the student food chain... Of course she wanted to go back. Hell, _he'd_ body swap and time travel in a heartbeat, for that kind of security.

"And Liz," Alex continued obliviously, "was heavily into clubs, glee, drama…" There, in the relentless January gloom, she managed to find a beam of light. That beam struck a dusty corner where an epiphany hid, "I guess _I was_ popular." She murmured. "But it was by association and luck. I never tried."

He _envied_ her.

Which was odd, since they'd both ended up in the same place.

"I don't suppose that _grades_ actually had a place in your high school fiefdom." He ribbed.

She turned and gave him 'Eames face', a hard stare, simultaneously sharp and deadpan. "Grades have no place in a discussion about high school."

_That_ made him laugh. On this point they were simpatico. It didn't matter what society thought about school, or its intrinsic importance to a successful future. For Bobby, the truth was it was a social experiment. He saw the education system as craftily designed to show children their place in the world. To help littlest ones settle into mediocrity. To preempt the inclination and momentum to rebel.

With this anarchic point of view, it was funny that when he'd reached the age of majority, he'd pledged his life to two institutions even more dogmatic then school; the army and the NYPD. Because, in living, Robert Goren had realized his own hierarchy of needs. First: power. Second: stability. Third: belonging. Fuck intellect. He would have shovelled shit for a living if it had offered him those three necessities.

"I was an average student." Alex admitted. "Cs, Bs."

"So was I." He said.

Her gaze flew to him, and her eyes flared. _**What? He was a genius.**_ There was no denying it. He had savant levels of retention, he was a walking encyclopedia, every single day he made causal bridges that were too big for common minds. She'd expected him to say he'd skipped years, or fast tracked into university, or been given his choice of gifted programs. She didn't understand that he'd never had an advocate, or the confidence to be his own (which was infinitely more valuable then a brain). With his circumstances: low income, tarred and feathered by Frank's legacy of prejudiced teachers, and a mother who made a spectacle of herself. His report cards had reflected that reality. But something in him didn't want to burst her bubble. It was love. Alex looked so content reminiscing.

"It was okay." He smoothed over his nightmares, to preserve her peace of mind. "Sports were fun." A lie. He remembered basketball and Coach Cooke and shuddered.

"_I do_ miss it." Alex said, a bit dreamily, thinking him right there with her.

He wasn't. He was writing. "This is all _really_ good stuff." He had been for a while, judging by the amount of broad script on the page.

"You're taking notes." She smirked. "What is this? An unauthorized biography?"

He snuffed out a laugh. "No, this is our vic. This is a man who yearned for the predictability of childish things. And who blocked out harsher realities. Figuratively. Literally."

"You make me sound like a basket case." She snarked.

"No. You moved on. Arnold Pierce didn't." Goren said, distractedly scribbling. _**Thank you Eames.**_ _**My constant.**_ He meant that mathematically. She filled in his mental equations. But perhaps even Goren wasn't truly cognizant of just how constant.

The world was now graded on a curve called Alexandra.

* * *

Their search for their perp, coined the 'bubble wrap bandit,' by some smartass, took them to a Boomer Toys in Philadelphia. They had profiled the woman as, 'pretty, pernicious and persuasive' the 3 Ps. Goren poked around the shop benignly. But, when the store proprietor Mitchell Donair, became uncooperative, Goren got that gleam in his eye, and Eames immediately buckled in for the ride.

"Hey! A Johnny 7, a one man army." Goren announced brandishing a big gun. "My brother had one when I was a kid. Nearly took my eye out with it. 7 weapons in one." Alex tracked him around the room. "One! Grenade launcher" A plastic grenade catapulted from the gun and smacked the wall.

This was one of those moments, when the love got the better of Alex. Bobby redefined poetic justice. Attacking the toys, of black market toy dealer, with a toy gun? He redefined everything for her. The job didn't have to be standoffs and bloodshed. Prying wide the cracks in human psychology, that was where the satisfaction lay. Together they hit Mitch where hurt, and had a private laugh.

"Hey you'll break something!" Yelled the portly owner.

Eames turned to him and ratcheted up the pressure. "You sure you don't have those records?"

"Two! Anti-tank rocket." Goren yelled like this was a battlefield in Nam.

Mischief was in the air. "I'm goin' for a walk." Their escort, a Philly detective named Xavier, took his unis and bailed. He wasn't going to take the heat for these two New York yahoos. If he didn't see it, it didn't happen.

"Three! Armour piercing shell."

"Okay!" The clerk cracked like duck egg. "Maybe I have a record. I don't know if it's in here." He rifled through a stack of invoices about a millimetre deep. Clearly business was not brisk.

"Four! Anti-bunker missile." Goren geronimo'd.

"Here found it!" The shop owner waved a sheet. Eames snatched the proof of sale from him. _**What an annoying little man**_.

"Five! machine gun." Goren sprayed Mitchell Donair with a glorified baby rattle, but it felt damn good.

"Elizabeth Wexley." Eames read. "You paid her 2000 cash, the things worth 10. Nice profit margin."

"She wanted cash? And that didn't tip you off that the robot was stolen." Goren still had 2 more weapons and some aggression to work through. "Six! Repeater rifle."

"Okay, okay! So maybe I should've been more careful!" The shop owner whined, over the pings of things hitting his merchandise.

"Pierce mention anything about this girl?"

"He asked if I bought the robot from a girl he said her name was Amanda. She lived in an apartment over on East Barrington the 200 block"

"No apartments on the 200 block its all commercial." Detective Xavier reappeared.

"That include a mailbox store?" Xavier nodded, and Eames pursed her lips. "No wonder he was angry, she stole his robot."

"Well, don't get between a guy and his toys." Goren quipped, pulling out the last weapon a handgun, in an even tone he said, "Seven. Cap gun."

Then he lay the spent thing in a heap on the counter, and didn't look back.

* * *

Deakins stood over their desks, thumbing through the literary work of Carlotta Francis. The book crackled in his palms. The dust jacket was loose. The plastic lamination pulled away from the paper. Goren looked more at the object, then at the hands that held it. To him it had a face. An expression created by every crease, dimple and dogear. Without knowing the date of publication he could gage it's age. And inside the hard back, the pages had long gone from crisp and white, to soft and tea stained.

Bobby had spent the previous evening with the trilogy. With one in hand, and one flipped open on his chest. He'd placed the latter strategically near his nose, to revel in the scent of old book. All three books had been short work for him. He'd devoured the content in about 5 hours. He could quite deftly comprehend about a thousand words of fiction a minute, by his estimation, give or take a hundred.

His partner had opted for the online reviews and crib notes. Saying she would read the novels if, 'there was a point.' He didn't judge that choice. She was right. There wasn't a prize for cramming like it was a final. This case was unlikely to hinge on the details in the texts. But the novels still called to him like sea sirens. Such was his (mildly perverted) relationship with books. So last night he'd wedged nice soft pillow under his neck, settled onto the couch, put a beer at arms reach, and set about giving those dirty little words what they wanted.

"All the books, they have a character named Rosalie Penet." Goren explained to their captain. "She's ten years old during the French Revolution when she was bitten by a vampire. She became immortal and never aged."

"Rosalie's dress tells her story, in the second novel she and her fellow vampires came to America. They're in Atlanta when Sherman burned it down." Eames continued, bluffing her way through the exam like a pro.

"That's why the dress is scorched." Goren added, staring at a photo of the costume.

"In the third novel she's in London when she's attacked by Jack the Ripper. She survived but her dress was slashed. She had to replace the sleeves." Eames finished.

Deakins Sounded disbelieving. "These were written in the 50s. They still have a big following?" Their captain sounded like he might of been a quarterback. He filled in another slot on their pyramid. A cliched jock: books are boring. Or maybe it was just fandom he found tedious.

"Well, it doesn't hurt that Carlotta Francis committed suicide when the last book was published." They all nodded. They'd seen enough serial killer groupies, and dead celebrity shrines to get behind that idea. When it came to death, civilians were very odd.

"If our lady con artist got her dress four months ago, there must have been a fan convention somewhere around that time." Deakins suggested.

Eames was on it. Tapping the particulars into a search engine. "There was. Sponsored by the Carlotta Francis society of Manhattan." She read. "They have pictures of their costume ball. We're looking for a brunette."

"There's the dress." Bobby observed.

"And that looks like our girl. 'Members of the Brooklyn Chapter say "Fangs for the memories."

"Vampire humour." Deakins observed wryly.

"Every Friday night they hold a wake at the Brooklyn Crypt. New devotees welcome."

"I see fake blood and schmoozing in your future." Deakins mocked. "Find your inner geek." And then he turned and walked away.

_**Geek? **_That word lit up for both of them. Geeks were their topic du jour. Maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe Deakins had their car bugged.

"I wouldn't be surprised." Alex told Bobby later, she could believe anything of anyone. The Captain had laid their big secret bare 4 weeks ago, and he hadn't mentioned it again. At home the detectives had discussed it at length. Now it was _when_ they would be exposed, rather then _if_.

For all his omnipresence, they both thought it hard to believe, that Deakins had known all about Jude before Nicole. Those would have been some keen powers of observation. Goren and Eames didn't really think of Deakins as a detective. He was insightful, sure. His impartial eye had unjammed many a log jam over the years. He had a very reductive personality, that helped when they couldn't see the forest for the trees. But he was bureaucratic. His passions could turn on a dime, to support the hierarchy or the bottom line. Imagine if he'd decided to 'get out ahead of this thing' by surveilling them.

Goren called in a favour that night. Someone to sweep their apartment and their requisition. In the end it hadn't been about Deakins at all. That had been collective paranoia. He doubted that Deakins had it in him to go this rogue. It was too sneaky and malicious. Besides, just believing that, would make it impossible to work with the man. He and Alex had to trust someone or soon they would implode. No. Deakins was only the inspiration. But for Goren inspiration was as valid as fact. He trusted it 100% of the time.

Bobby watched Ed Tremmel, a friend and surveillance expert, pan their apartment with his bleeping radio frequency analyser. Ed was tall, bald and tatted. He was formerly of the NYPD Zone Assessment Unit, a covert counter-terrorism arm. He'd quit the game and gone private sector a few years ago. According to Ed, he was 'making money hand over fist, without the brick-shitting fear.' Ed had real way with words. Alex liked him.

Goren kicked himself for not doing this weeks ago.

Nicole.

She was the real threat.

For the time being, she seemed bent on mischief and mayhem, rather than murder. She was probably lying on a Fijian beach, wearing a thong bikini, enormous black shades, and sunning her pale bum cheeks. She would sip her cocktail, while accepting a file hand delivered by the hotel page. A file full of transcripts of their conversations and other trans-pacific reconnaissance. No need to get her hands dirty. Goren didn't feel any mortal fear, only a wary anticipation of her next salvo.

"I got something." Ed said, with one khaki cargo pant leg sticking out of their Ford Explorer.

"_What?!_" Goren looked at Eames, their car _really was_ bugged? "What is it?"

"Not a listening device. It's a tracker. A GPS tracker."

"Oh." Alex was relieved. "That's standard issue. They clock our miles and other things."

"I worked for the NYPD for 20 years. Trust me, this is not standard issue." Ed said. Goren and Eames looked at each other for so long, so silently, that Ed asked, "You want me to get rid of it or what?"

"Get rid of it." They said in unison.

"And make it fast." Eames added. They weren't off duty, they had a party to attend at the Brooklyn Crypt.

* * *

Goren sat in the Medical Examiner's office. He leaned over their hotel room corpse. She was a gothic, undead, princess. Midnight hair, ghostly skin, a long black sheath and blood red satin bindings. **Maybe she's been turned, **he thought fancifully** maybe she'll rise from the dead.**

_She sat up. And looked at him. "Good they left me a snack." She growled. Her eyes flashed a bile yellow. She had the element of surprise. She grabbed his tie and pulled him toward her. She was strong. Inhumanly strong. He struggled against her, a fly wriggling on fly paper. She loosened her grip and he tried to run, but his foot caught the edge of the gurney and he went down hard. _

_He lay sprawled and stunned on the linoleum. He grabbed for his gun, but she lept off the table, a jaguar in flight. The hellbeast landed in a crouch, then straddled him, pinning his chest. He heard the sick crack of his ribs, as she held him still. Then she bared her knife sharp canines. _

'_I'll make it quick." _

_Those teeth were a firebrand on his neck. She tapped right into his jugular. He felt the warmth of his own urine flooding his leg. The world grew hazy. He tried to scream but..._

Eames breezed in a file in hand. "Her FBI prints got a hit, Lori Purcell, 29. She took a collar from Philadelphia PD for pros. and drugs."

Lori Purcell. She'd been charismatic in life. But popular sure didn't mean classy. Lori Purcell was nothing but a grifter. Looking down on her Goren saw a hint of that allure. In her features, she was attractive of course, that was plain to see, but like all bodies the essence was gone. They never got to glimpse the spirit. It was deeply unsatisfying.

"That's the kind of background, we'd expected. Low opinion of men, ability to manipulate them." He said.

"And how, she had over 300 grand in a bank account."

"That's probably how she got her biggest thrill, to take what was most precious from marks, like Arnold's toy robot." He circled the dummied up coffin.

"Looks homemade." Alex commented.

"I think it was made to fold up, be carried. The killer was probably gonna come back and leave her in the bed."

"Just another hotel guest who died in her sleep, causes unknown." She leaned in, looking at the wired disc he'd uncovered in the folds of the cotton lining. "Smoke alarm?"

"Carbon dioxide detector. Batteries are still there." He poked around. "A fan."

"The wood looks water damaged."

"Right, so the detector senses when the carbon dioxide level is too high, the fan kicks in, and clears the air."

"A safety device? Maybe this thing wasn't built to kill anybody." Eames suggested.

"It's big enough to fit two people. You know, in one of the books, Rosalie's mother almost suffocates buried alive with her lover. That's what this box was designed to simulate. As it fills with carbon dioxide, it acts as a form of erotic asphyxiation."

_**Score one for reading the books, **_Alex thought. "Whoever put the girl in here must've disabled the fan."

"These hinges they look old to you?" Goren asked, they were dirty, hammered bronze with a religious motif.

"Old enough to be a Recovered Relic."

As they walked out into cool evening air Eames quipped. "Looks like this is going to be a little less Dracula and a little more Revenge of the Nerds."

He just shook his head.

* * *

Alex paced their living room robotically, using motion to settle both the baby and her exasperation. Not only was Bobby _always_ reading something - being all white collar while she just felt blue. He was also getting ahead of her on this case. She had never begrudged him his research before. Usually his infomania felt like extra credit. Too diverse and weakly linked to the case to matter. He'd consume anything, from tomes on the American judicial system, to Jewish religious sects, to classic car restoration manuals. He loved his background and she loved him occupied, rather then itching, and twitching, and shimmying, all over the apartment. But this case was different. The materials he was consuming were relevant and useful. The dead author's bibliography was a bible to these perps. Bobby had knocked out that trilogy in three quarters of an evening. She would need a couple of weeks at least. She was feeling a little intellectually outgunned.

"What are you reading?" She snapped.

"Something I found in the archives of Brooklyn Magazine." He held up a periodical.

"When did you have the time to go to the office of Brooklyn Magazine?" Out of date, regional magazines weren't just lying around all willy nilly. Not outside the waiting rooms of dental offices anyway. He'd made a special trip.

"On the way home from work. It's right up the road." He folded the glossy pages back on themselves. "They had an abridged version online, but I wanted to read the complete investigative report."

"Is it relevant?" She asked.

"Peripherally." He muttered, sinking back into a lukewarm tub of text, his voice tapering off. This was _his_ happy place.

Alex frowned. "_What do you mean?_" She hated it when she didn't _get_ him. Her irritation was intense. Jude was like a led weight, fixed to her tit like a tentacle, and yet soundly asleep. Her arms were burning, but every time she put him down he woke and wailed.

"It mentions Carlotta Francis, she was a Brooklyn native. But it mostly uses her as a toehold. It's about the psychology of fandom."

Alex made another circle around the coffee table. Accidentally, not so accidentally, kicking him. She was tired of this mother gig. She was ready to sell this kid. Not really. But motherhood fused to the end of her work day, so that she was never off duty. But he was. _**Oh lucky daddy.**_ She could drive a Mack truck through his _relaxed_ thighs. Take a nap to the cadence of his _yogic_ breathing. No. She really wanted to drop 25 pounds of squalling baby on his soft, oblivious gut. But this was her lot, _**it is what it is**_, so she settled on mental warfare. She would annoy him as much as he was annoying her. "Read it to me." She commanded.

"It's 10 pages, over two issues." He balked. "It'll take forever."

_**Ah ha! **_She knew it! _She knew it_. Escapism. That was all this was. Case her ass. He was trying to ignore them!

"I've got nothing but time."

And she felt a perverse victory when he sighed and began to read.

_Under the pen name Carlotta Francis, Charlotte Marie Brabant was the author of a best selling vampire trilogy. The first of which was written in 1951 the last in 1954. Though not as lauded, it might be said that Francis' novels predicted future authors like Rice, King and now Meyers. She, arguably, ushered in the next generation of vamp-lit. Francis' Lord Fantomas series was both an inaugural and posthumous effort. The titles include (in chronological order): Darkness Takes A Daughter, Blood Magnolias, and The Ripper's Mask. Book one debuted at number 20 on the a New York Times bestsellers list. _

_On May 15, 1954 the police were called to a fifth floor walk up in the Brooklyn borough of Williamsburg. Neighbours reported a distinctive odour in the halls. By process of elimination they were led to the body of the gothic fiction writer. Reports say that the victim was found deceased in a full bathtub, with 'neck and arm trauma'. It was a perfectly scripted demise for a vampire enthusiast. An autopsy was performed. It concluded that the author's wounds were self-inflicted. Both anticoagulants and alcohol were discovered in her system. The coroner quickly ruled the death a suicide, but the gory romanticism of the tragedy has secured a spot for Carlotta Francis in infamy._

_The woman and her mythology remain strong even today. There are thriving literary subcultures and vampire fandoms that pay homage to her work. Her mysterious death, her solitary life, and her compelling prose, are the talk of these gatherings. Despite her limited body of work (in addition to her most famous trilogy, she has one lesser known novella, as well as a series of articles printed in a small local publication called the Paranormal Underground). There is an undeniable richness to her tales that encourages a devoted fandom. The Lord Fantamous books bridge time and continents. Wherever her vampires roamed, Francis managed to tap into the zeitgeist. She made a sumptuous feast of high street fashion, Queen Victoria's court, Rippers, rapists and revolutionaries. The Carlotta Francis society not only reenacts scenes from her novels in costume and character, they are also fanatical about adherence to even the most minute details of her texts. _

He paused and looked at Alex, her eyes were glazing over. "I told you it's old news."

"You're reading the wrong part." She shook her head. There was no mystique in tawdry 'true crime' for either of them. "Get to the groupthink."

"You think fandoms are groupthink?" He wanted her perspective again.

"Not necessarily. But once the dressing up starts and the obsession with 'getting it right'..." She scorned. Alex clearly thought _all_ fans were crazy. Whimsy was a foreign concept to her. She barely had time to eat, let alone commission elaborate vampire gowns for vampire parties. On that bitter thought, she gave up the battle with her son, accepted him as a parasite, and sank like an anchor, into the armchair, cradling him close.

"I know what you mean." Bobby said. "There was something off at the Brooklyn Crypt. They were enthusiastic about the books, but it felt cultish. Like they'd surrendered their free will."

"Blank." Alex agreed.

"Beatlemania grown up wrong." In his mind's eye, he conjured a black and white motif, of screaming crying girls jostling Bobbies (the British kind), to get to George, Paul, John and Ringo.

"Beatlemania? Now who's showing their age?"

His lips ticked up. Touché.

He kept reading;

_To quote a Carlotta devotee, "We are trying to keep the letter of the work alive. Of course it's fun for us, we eat, and drink, and catch up on real life. But, more then that, we're creating a space for future generations of fans. We want everyone to come and enjoy the beauty and perfection of this art."_

_Strong words._

_As a reporter, it left me thinking, 'Does this guy know that these are only stories? And even worse, stories that are dated, designed for a niche audience, and debuted to mixed critical reception?' I wondered if there was some kind of collective hysteria at play here? Something on the level of Jim Jones, or Waco. I had intended to use the anniversary of the Carlotta Francis death, as a simple retrospective. An exploration of a homegrown success, and a genre that has swelled in popularity. But on meeting the fans it felt like a gauntlet had been thrown down. I found myself wanting to pry back lid on what is possibly the last, and most influential, secret society. Fandom._

_You may feel it's sacrilegious for the fourth estate to probe the fifth this way. Fan culture resides in a very avant garde world. The content may be derived from the mainstream, but the manipulations can be downright X -rated. Fandoms occupy the same realm as the blogosphere, as online classifieds and as social media. All places where the message is determined by the end user, not disseminated by governments or corporations. In short, fandom is free and fun. Being a fan is like a merry trip down the rabbit hole. It's a confusing LSD laced world where real is fake, fake is real, paper people are flesh and blood, and on screen faces are friends. Devotees root for the well being of fictional protagonists and antagonists alike, and draw some very real battle lines. There are actual feuds. sporting teams, most obviously - but also, between comic book universes and pop band followers. _

_But before we go further a definition is in order. Merriam-Webster loosely defines fandom as "the state or attitude of being a fan." Well duh. Like most language, a pop culture twist is afoot. Perhaps the Urban Dictionary said it better _"_**The community that surrounds a tv show/movie/book etc. Fanfiction writers, artists, poets, and cosplayers are all members of that fandom. Fandoms often consist of message boards, livejournal communities, and people. Example: The Harry Potter fandom has some of the most diverse fans, from eight year olds to thirty somethings."**_ _But I prefer this bitter entry with a charming grammatical error, _"_**An awful, wonderful community of people who's feelings don't matter to the authors and creators of books, television shows, movies, etc…" **__It gets at the heart of a counter-culture gripe._

_And it leads seamlessly to the next question, why? That depends on which 'why' you mean. Why are some stories and shows catnip to certain people? Or why invest energy in exploring and expanding them? Susan Lundley of Strathclyde University is a cultural anthropologist. In other words, she studies these things for a living. She has the most plausible answer I've found. Of fanfiction she says "You don't write fiction because you're a fan of the show. You write fiction because the show is a fan of something in you." Take this sentiment and extrapolate it, to costume play, to conventions, to clubs. The sky's the limit, but the motivations are the same. The second why is, why make the investment? This reporter thinks it's nothing more then momentum. Once a fan becomes engaged, they are drawn into a world of like-minded individuals, judgement-free zones and prolific levels of feedback. It's intoxicating._

Bobby looked up at her. Alex was so silent that he wondered if she'd nodded off. She hadn't she was watching him intently. "You okay?"

"Listening."

"You want more?"

"Summarize."

He rolled his eyes. And made short work of the rest of the article, silently flipping pages with a tight jaw, feeling sorry he'd ever revealed this superpower to her. "It talks about the financial potential of fandom. It talks about the way that fans are a new market, quote, 'Viewers are dead, fans are gods.' It says the shift has to do with a new diffuse demographic. The emerging ways of consuming media: phones, on-demand, streaming, and Internet sharing, are making it less trackable, a Nielsen box doesn't cut it anymore. It also talks about how, galvanized, passionate fan bases have helped shape network TV."

"Good." She said having had her fill. And as a bonus he'd distracted her long enough for Jude to fall off the nipple. She look down at her bare gleaming breast and his slack baby jaw. She planted a kiss on his hair, maybe she'd keep him after all. Then, just like that, Jude was gone. Swept high against his father's chest, and she was left alone, with a sweaty pair of forearms and a damp lap. They had generated a lot of body heat nestled together.

"I'll put him down." Her partner offered, just in time to do the light lifting.

"Gee thanks." She reeked sarcasm.

She didn't grasp his ulterior motive until he got back.

"Sit with me." He urged, patting the sofa and gazing at her.

She would know _that look _anywhere.

"Seriously? Now?"

"Seriously. Now." His voice was deep and sexual. His look was steady and smouldering. She didn't move. Her irritation had long dissipated, but she wasn't sure if she could polish his knob. She looked at his crotch weighing the pros and cons. As she considered it, the most x-rated bulge awakened. It grew to a comical tent, helped along by baggy pants, commando status and scrutiny. They kept up the staring, until his arousal became the elephant in the room.

"What is it about loafing on the couch and reading a magazine article that makes you hot?" She asked.

"I'm visualizing. I'm _very_ good at visualizing." It was another gift. He could see things behind his eyes in technicolour.

"What are you visualizing exactly." She ran a shaky hand through the layers of her hair. He was unnerving, he probably always would be.

"Do you remember our first time." He said very slowly.

She smiled.

He smiled.

She was pleased that she'd made it memorable. That had been the goal. Something unforgettable to help him forget. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"C'mere." He instructed.

She hesitated. Was it wrong to give him what he wanted? After all of her annoyance, to now be slavishly tied to this man's whims? Maybe he had other super powers, mind control…

"Alex." He cooed. His voice was a flute.

She stood. She dug out a wedgie, she stretched, she cracked her knuckles. She didn't feel like getting on her knees, but she would take one for the team, if that was what he wanted. His tractor beam stare picked her up, and drew her closer. Eventually she was within grabbing range. He seized her wrist and pulled her atop him. She straddled his lap with her knees.

"You're moist." He rasped in her ear. Cupping her bottom and pulling her in tight, so she could feel him between her thighs. She _was_ damp. Across the front of the T-shirt and down through the apex of her jeans.

"Jude sweat."

"Or maybe you were thinking about me."

She _had_ been thinking him, but not in the way he wanted. Cursing him. Still, she could talk dirty. This was _her_ superpower. She could still hear that sleazy speech she'd created in Vice. During the long hours on the street she would stand in 5 inch stilettos, leaning in to window after window, of grimy old sedan, after grimy old sedan. She would snap her gum and spiel, "I'll blow you for 20, I'll fuck you for 50, dirty talk is free."

She'd probably seemed very affordable to those Johns. Unfortunately, once she had the commitment the cops would storm the castle, so buying Alex was a false economy. Factoring fines, towing fees, lawyers and the marriages ended, she calculated that she'd actually been the most expensive piece of ass on the planet. But at least she'd gotten some transferrable skills. She put her mouth against his ear. She modulated her tone, finding sweet and vulnerable. "It was so hard to listen. I was watching your lips, imagining them on me. Softly sucking my clit. I was thinking about how hard, and long and thick you get. I felt you ramming into me."

He groaned.

"Your big cock. You have such a big cock."

He groaned again, moving her over him. The friction throwing sparks, charring the fabric between them. She wasn't done. She tongued his ear. "Do you want me to suck you off?"

"_Alex!"_ He sounded truly scandalized. It was her intensity, not her words. He'd expected a rocky, uphill slog into her pants, instead he was about to come in his.

She whined, the same timbre as her orgasmic throes. It raised his skin. He locked and loaded. And began gripping and ripping and shoving. Until his length was lodged deep in her snug. She was humid and tight and perfect. He rolled her over him slow and even. His strength made her a doll.

"That brain." She grabbed his hair and shoved his head back. She raked her nails over his scalp, then pressed her fingers to the base of his skull. Her sex-soaked eyes probing like hot pokers.

"My brain?"

"It seduces me."

"It does?" He panted. He'd picked up on her earlier aggression.

"Uh huh." She moaned. Her passion was a nuanced thing. There were a million emotional degrees between love and hate. For him, she could span every one of them in a millisecond. She slid her hands down his neck, over his shoulders, down his arms and took his heavy hands in hers. The pads of her thumbs swept over his palmar creases like Braille. Then she raised his hands high and curved them around her neck. "Don't you want to know what it's all about?" She asked.

"Erotic asphyxiation?"

"Have you ever…" She whispered.

"No."

"Me either. Do it."

He tightened his hold. It _was_ thrilling. A power exchange always is.

"More." She eked out, bearing down, feeling him deep, down low and tight up high. But if she could speak, it wasn't enough. Soon the depression of his thumb caused a lump in her throat, one that she couldn't swallow or escape. She bucked, then squeaked, and reddened in the face.

He dropped his hands. "I can't."

It didn't get him off. Fear of hurting her made him wilt.

"That's fine. That's okay." Her breath was rough and fast, kind of like her hips. "I like vanilla."

* * *

They had assembled all the players.

It was their signature move.

They were here to roust out a killer.

Goren was already in attack mode. "You saw that the box was missing, and you figured out what kind of reception they were planning for your beloved Jocelyn. And so you bought one of these a party store." Goren waived the seltzer bottle, the small tube of death, and the linchpin of Dorian Cavanagh's plan. The man's pale cheeks trembled at the confrontation. Goren read it as one part guilt, one part fear and one part righteous indignation. "you went to Carl's because his van has a broken lock."

"Dorian, you didn't. You killed her?" Parker begged.

"Shut up! Shut up! You loser!" He lunged like a feral beast at his former friends. Who sat there, like a book of damp matchsticks on the velvet settee.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah, they're all losers right?" Goren berated. "But you had Jocelyn, who who for a brief moment made you feel like someone special, til she hit you up for the eight grand, and the bank turned you down. Is that when the lightbulb went on? When you saw what your life really was? The life of a loser. Pretending to be little vampires, hanging out in your vampire crypt, discussing your vampire books, having sad vampire sex, in a plywood vampire box."

"Stop it!" The ridicule was too much for Dorian.

"You were angry at her. But you got enraged at them," Goren gestured at the sad clump of humans. "Because they are everything that you loathe about yourself. They sucked your identity from you. They made you easy prey for just a promise of intimacy, just a promise of anyone to help you reclaim your uniqueness. So you took this" He waved the tube, "and destroyed them, you destroyed her! Now your whole life, up in vapour. That's what you did didn't you?"

"Yes." Cavanaugh confessed his voice whisper. "I didn't know she really loved me. I didn't."

Afterward, the detectives walked down a Brooklyn Street at dusk, knowing another one was in the bag. Gratefully, they weren't feeling it as deeply as some of the others. None of the elements of this case touched their present selves. Cliques, collectives, secret clubs, it all seemed like child's play. But still, something stuck for Goren. Like a chunk of gristle between his molars. It wouldn't come loose. He wondered if there were some detail that he'd missed, an accomplice, a secondary crime. Eames turned to him and said,

"Well, Dorian got his wish, he is officially a monster." She was witty as ever. Apparently, not suffering from the same malady he was.

"I feel weird," He said "Not upset, just weird."

"Of course you do."

_**She knows what we missed? **_He looked at her, with a furrowed brow.

"That was some impressive social climbing. That was the quickest I've ever seen anyone go from loner to mean girl." She patted his arm. "You're one of us now."

"I didn't mean all that.' He defended. "It was for the case."

"It's always _for_ something Bobby. You can always justify wanting to be on top. And then justify the way you chose to get there. But in the end, the trophy is always personal gain. The smartest ones don't pretend otherwise. And you're _very_ smart."

He rocked back on his heels.

Then he climbed into the SUV, with his tiara firmly in place.

As they drove he digested it his way, through big literary themes. Man's inhumanity to man. Survival of the fittest. Win at all costs. And a fall from grace.


	40. Chapter 40

**STRESS POSITION**

"Dad!" Alex banged on the flimsy storm door. "Dad!" She let her shrewd cop eyes pan the small porch. The place was falling apart. The fine mesh of the bug screen was curling up at the corners. The galvanized metal frame rusting along the edges. To one side sat a brown ceramic flower pot, filled with clumps of something in full decay. Up along the line of the ceiling, more spiders had nested then she was comfortable with. Wefts of old webs floated down like willow vines, swaying, as icy winter air whipped in, through cracks that cried out for silicone caulking. But they weren't willow vines. There wasn't a leaf in New York City. It was cold. Everything was dead, including, she'd bet, the arachnid that had made that derelict web.

Everything was dead.

Her mother was dead.

That much was obvious. Barbara Eames would have taken the state of this front porch as a personal indictment. Johnny Eames didn't give a shit. Alex knew it wasn't out of malice. Her father was a senior citizen now. He was slower, achier and transitioning into the final phase of life. And he was going out honest. Suddenly he said everything that came into his head, like a pre-schooler.

But he wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. Her dad was a spunky 'junior senior', closer to 70 then 75, still mobile and moderately sociable. He played bridge twice a week, at a club based out of the local legion. He was a member of the 10-13 a retired cop's advocacy group. He'd even gone to Albany last fall - on big yellow school bus full of guys - to picket the state legislature against proposed pension reform. Her dad had gotten a lot more political since quitting the force. Alex guessed that he liked the camaraderie more then the cause. And while he missed their mother desperately, he'd been a beat cop his whole life, low on the totem pole but high on the brotherhood. So being in the company of men, filled the void more than it might for the average widower. Unfortunately, all that outward focus was double edged. It made home little more then a place to rest his head. Both then and now. Only today there were ramifications. Today there was no wife following him with a broom, and a hamper, and brown paper bag full of lunch. The neglect was showing, here on this porch, and on the loose skin and gaunt angles of his face.

"Dad!" Alex pounded again. Four calls. She would give him four opportunities to answer the door, before she put her cadet training to the test, and kicked it in. It'd be comical, her raising a leg, but this was a simple pop lock and porous wood. Alex peered through the sidelights, careful to keep her nose away from the thin layer of grime. But that, in conjunction with the rolled glass, made it too distorted to see inside. At this time of day, 11am, she should be able see movement. There wasn't any.

This was their family home, in Inwood. A chocolate brick 1930's built Tudor. It had been their family home since 1962. Alex knew the story of this house all too well. It was Eames lore. 'The year was 1961, the damn Russians had just put the first man in space. And the first of three buns was baking in your mother's oven.' Her dad's words, not hers. They'd needed somewhere to live. Their apartment had only had two bedrooms, and it wasn't rent controlled. They'd found the perfect house. This house. There had been a serious bidding war, bloody and vicious. They had ended up paying an astronomical $135,000 ($10,000 over asking) for a four bedroom detached family home in Manhattan.

Needless to say it was a unicorn.

This house was a fairytale that mothers told their children at bedtime. After the legend about the dragon, and before the one about a headstrong princess. "_Once upon a time, there was a detached family home in Manhattan." _She would pause for dramatic effect._ "This house had a garage and a backyard big enough for a trampoline." _Of course her eyes would be wide, and her arms would gesture grandly.

The Eames residence, stood adjacent to the athletic complexes of Columbia University, and skipping distance to Muscota Marsh Park. And it was the family nest egg now. For years, this beloved piece of real estate had been a 'break glass in case of' scenario. The old refrain when times got tight was, 'we could always sell the house.' Now in the twilight of her father's life, and with an astronomical property value assessment (somewhere in the realm of 2 million dollars), it was going to be their inheritance. Both the kids and the grandkids (in trust). And the Eames trio - Jack, Alex and Liz - sat, patiently waiting for dad to 'kick it', so they could sell, and pocket that silly money. Not really. But it was a running joke they enjoyed telling him. To which he always replied "From my cold, dead hands!" With mock Heston intensity. To which they replied, 'fine by us.'

Gallows humour.

"Dad!" Alex bellowed again. Impatience slowly ceding to fear. What if something was wrong in there. What if he'd fallen or….

"Alright, alright! I'm comin'. Keep your knickers on."

_**Knickers? God. Welcome to the past.**_

The heavy oak door swung open, and he was standing there, mildly disheveled. As disheveled as a man of his generation could be, anyway. A man who thought loafers, dress slacks, and a button down were casual attire. He needed a haircut, of course, his hair was pasted to his skull in every direction. With a very familiar cow lick (one she saw on her son everyday) spraying upward from his crown. Alex assessed her work, tilting her head this way and that. Her mission was to tame her dad's cloud of messy, cotton candy, hair.

"I've been banging for 10 minutes. I was about to kick it in."

"I was on the can. Can't a man use his own toilet in peace anymore?"

Alex rolled her eyes. He made it sound like she was a toddler, following him around. "Yeah that's me, always getting between you and your bowel movements." She muttered. Then held up her black pleather case and shook it. "Remember? We have an appointment to make you look respectable again."

He huffed at the implication that he wasn't respectable, then he grumbled. "Well come in then."

Alex bit back a smile. Only her dad could make her feel like an interloper for taking three hours off work, driving across the city, and waiting at his front door _for ages_, to do him a favour. It wasn't like there was a shortage of barbers up here, on the last streets of Manhattan. No doubt there was some Louie or Sammy, with a hole-in-the-wall shop, and an old-school blue and red barber's pole. They would make quick work of Johnny's head. And he would probably _love_ it, love the gossip and the banter. Alex figured it would cost him 10 bucks, 20 tops. On the other hand, she estimated her cost to be about $169.89 factoring gas, lost productivity, and effort. But she had spoiled him. And she sensed that he treasured this time with her.

"Where's my grandson?" Johnny's voice was gravelly as he led her in. Alex followed behind the lean, straight T of his shoulders. He was taller then her, but only by a head. He zigzagged through the parlour. She curled her toes into the shaggy clay-like broadloom. It was a brownish red, which she'd been told her whole life, was "good for hiding dirt." It lay over every square inch of the house (even the kitchen and bathrooms, before they'd ripped it out in '71). Gilded, gold framed, family photos were still everywhere, and they were still hung about a foot too high for comfortable viewing. The parlour still had it's stuffy Queen Anne settee, and a large mahogany hutch filled with Royal Doulton stemware and figurines. Every square inch held memories of a woman's touch. A traditional, house proud, woman.

"He's with the nanny. I told you I wouldn't be bringing him."

Her dad led them straight through the sitting room. And the smell, at once made Alex feel homesick and heartsick. She wanted Bobby. She wanted to curl into him, her new life, and bury this onslaught of emotion right in his chest. It was an odd craving. She never did that. She was never so weak with him. But home always resurrected something, for good or ill. She didn't know how her dad managed it, how he could live each day steeped in memories. The house was a museum.

_Mostly_.

As she thought it, she came face to face then with the only concession to modernity, a large flat screen TV. It sat on a space aged, black, lacquer entertainment console. Two large subwoofers flanked it like oversized ears. And the round jutting motif on the front of the unit made it seem like wherever you stood, there were a pair of big, glossy, obsidian eyes watching you, and taking in all the antiquity.

Her dad loved his shows.

His need for that TV totally eclipsed his taste in decor. To Alex it looked like a spaceship had touched down, dominating the whole southwest corner of the room. All of the old chairs and couches (the overstuffed kind, covered in beige floral print) were angled to it. And a fireplace, which should have been the focal point, was left languishing behind the setup.

"I never see him." Johnny was griping. "He's not going to know who I am." Jude, he meant Jude.

"Dad, I told you, I had to take time off work to come here. He's with the nanny, and we're on a case, this is a major thing I'm doing, taking off in the middle of the day." Alex frowned, she worried about him. She could see the fluctuations in his memory. Sometimes it was as precise as a laser, other times as dull as a spoon.

They arrived in the stand-alone kitchen. The pre-modern kind, sealed off from the rest of the house by a two way swinging door. It still had oak cabinets with brown curly cue pulls. There was a small breakfast bar, that overlooked a new round glass table. Tucked into that table, were 6 ancient diner style chairs, upholstered in 70s sunshiny yellow vinyl. Alex must have slid her butt across those things about 2 million times. The piece de resistance in this room, had been, and always be would be, a stunning set of glass French doors that opened onto the most luscious, green, postage stamp, of a backyard.

That yard, roughly 15 by 15, had a towering maple, some portly evergreens, some square boxwoods and enough climbing vines to satisfy Tarzan. As kids the Eames backyard had been the _it_ spot. Hosting tent sleepovers, soccer games, makeshift nets for volleyball. And as teens, they'd made a fire pit bounded by large stones. They'd held legendary bonfires, with the occasional sneaky beer. They'd even nailed thick wooden slats to the trunk of the tree, for toeholds, a way to climb into a future treehouse (that had never gotten built). For those brave enough, the leafy primary branches of that tree made a nice comfy seat with a decent view. Currently, Alex could see that the garden was dusted with snow, and a little bit grey. But still, it _was_ a backyard, an _actual_ fenced, lawned, backyard in Manhattan. "There are only three backyards in Inwood and we own one of 'em." Johnny had once told her, nurturing his own little dynasty. He wanted his blue collar kids to feel like New York royalty.

"Then where's Bobby?" He ground out.

"He's at 1PP, like I should be." _**Old man.**_ She didn't say that part. Alex had learned that she was never too old to be disciplined. Besides, she was happy to be here, and to see him, she hadn't seen him in a month, it was only the inconvenience that bothered her.

"Ahhh, that's my Bobby" He crowed. "Always getting things done."

Alex rolled her eyes again. _**Boys and their back slaps.**_ No appreciation for the long-suffering women. Her father was what she'd call a 'gentle bigot'. Never meaning harm, but causing it anyway. Mostly with old fashioned slang and outmoded habits. He was a man of his time, born in the 30's. A member of the Silent Generation. As taciturn, strong and salty as his post-depression birth demanded he be.

"That kid has got it up here." Johnny tapped his skull, grinning. And Alex knew that if rolled her eyes again she'd be hit by lightning. It was not news that her dad _loved_ Bobby. He loved him like a son. Of course, her dad also had no idea that Bobby was the one that had knocked her up. Or that he had coerced her into living in sin. Her dad thought that she lived alone as she always had. He seem content to believe that Jude was another immaculate conception. _**He must know**_**.** Jude looked like Bobby. More than 'looked like', he was a little carbon copy. But 45 years on the force had taught Eames Sr. when to probe, and when to shut it. Like Deakins, Johnny seemed to prefer a loaded silence, to divisive words.

Alex got to work. She lay a towel on the table and set out an array of tools on it. Then she shook out the cape. "Sit." She instructed. And he did, with the immediacy of a married man or perhaps rank and file - either way he was trained. And she was a natural at barking orders.

"So whatcha got?" He asked after a few moments of silence.

Alex secured the velcro around his neck, and considered his question. He was asking about the case. No, he was chomping at the bit about the case. He always was. He lived vicariously through her. True to their code, he never explicitly asked for details, he allowed her to offer them. She pulled out a spray bottle and began rhythmically misting his hair with lukewarm water. She preferred to scissor cut wet and then blow dry before the shaver.

"A C/O. Shived in a stairwell. At home. His apartment building." Alex murmured. There was an expectation of confidentiality on every case. But she trusted her dad. What she didn't expect, was his reaction. His hand came down hard on the table.

"_God dammit_."

"What? You know him or something?" She paused and peered around her dad's shoulder, tongue in cheek.

"No. Just a million like him. That is the hardest job in the world. No light. I tell you, not even a little bit of light. To go out like that..."

Alex considered that for a moment, raking a wide tooth comb through the soggy pile of the hair, which was now the colour of soot. "Save your sympathy. He might have asked for it."

"No one asks for that."

Alex felt pulled up short. It said something that her father made her feel cynical. After all his years pounding the pavement, after losing his mate to cancer, he still saw the goodness in life and in mankind. She, on the other hand, had nothing to complain about. Alex made a better wage right now, mid-career, then he had at his highest seniority. She had a beautiful family. And Major Case was a glorified desk job. Nothing like patrol. Nothing like street level, that world of hookers, snitches, looneys, and roid-ragers. That was the underbelly of society. She disagreed with her father, she had met many criminals that deserved a shanking. But point taken. Guard Kenna was so far, so clean. His wife was devastated. His house was neat and tidy. And the autopsy had definitely raised her and Bobby's eyebrows: forcefully lowered pants, and possibly a dummied up crime scene.

"Yeah you're right." She owed this vic the benefit of the doubt.

"What facility?" Johnny asked.

"Brooklyn Fed."

He let out a low whistle.

"What? Now you got dirt on Brooklyn Fed?" Alex asked incredulous, tipping her dad's head back to see his eyes.

"No. It's just hard time for the guys that work there."

"And gals." She used his vernacular to drag him kicking and screaming into the 21st century.

He looked up again with a twinkle in his eye. "And gals." He conceded. "I remember. So many stories. One about an inmate that knocked up two separate guards. Rape. That one set precedent. Another one, a poof, got castrated in the showers, almost bled to death. Another one, I'll never forget this one, he was one of ours, collared by the 9-1. Oliveira. Jonas Oliveira. Attempted murder. Anyway Brooklyn Fed they had this policy, I think it's changed now, sticking two guys in solitary together. Two animals shoved into a space made for one. He ended up cellies with a 3 strike dealer. This guy, the dealer had used his own stuff for years, he was out of his head. Reynolds? Something like that. He was death row, killed his own brother. So like I said, they put Jonas Oliveira in with him. They said on the stand that they didn't even hear the kid scream. A guy I knew, a guard who was working A-block that night, told me he went straight to church after seeing that mess. Said it was like Silence of the Lambs in that cell."

"I heard about that one." Alex had. And it wasn't Reynolds. It was Rey John. Timothy Rey John. She'd been 3 years out of the academy. It had been the primary case cited for prison reform, at Brooklyn Fed in particular.

"Also there are rumours." Johnny went on, tilting his head to the left, for her to keep snip, snip, snipping.

"What kind of rumours?"

"That it's a five star hotel for wiseguys."

This was the payoff for Alex. Her father was an anecdotal goldmine. No not a goldmine, a toehold, like the rungs up that old maple in the backyard. He made her think. And he gave her a glimpse at another world. One all about 'ear to the ground,' blue uniforms, and a fully loaded gunbelt on your hips. Nothing like the ivory glass and metal tower she lived in. "Got anything else?" She asked him.

"What's in it for me?" He teased.

"A full haircut." She shot back, from behind his warped head. "I hear asymmetrical is big right now."

"That's my smartass." He crowed, because she was his boy.

He _had_ a boy, a bonafide heir, a John Jr. no less, and still Alexandra, sweet Allie, she was his boy. The only one of his brood that had followed in his footsteps. And those of his father before him.

_And how! _

She was _Major Case_. _His kid _was Major Case. He was busting with pride. So he gave her what she wanted, more tales from beyond the pale.

"Yeah. I've got more. Not Brooklyn Fed, Rikers, but maybe you can use it…"

* * *

Traffic was a bitch on the way back, from up high in the SUV, it was a sheet of steel roofs crawling down from Inwood. The only thing that had gotten Alex through, was the extra, extra large, triple, triple coffee steaming in the cup holder, and a 'sharing size' bag of M&amp;Ms, that she'd scored after filling up at Mobil. The candy tucked neatly against the seat beside her, right where her partner usually sat. Alex crunched on a fistful, and decided she preferred it when sugar rode shotgun. At 1PP the 11th floor was busy. Guys everywhere, moving like zombies from desk, to filing cabinet, to desk again.

"Hey." She greeted him, slipping off her coat and tucking into her seat.

"How'd it go?" Goren asked without looking up.

"There's one more respectable senior citizen in the world." She frowned at his mess. The line between his desk and hers had been obliterated. It looked like a file folder factory exploded. "How'd it go here?"

"Prisoners, prisoners and more prisoners." He said gnawing on the end of a Bic pen.

She pushed at a pile, managing to just eke out a square foot for her laptop, but she didn't complain. This was how she'd managed to get time off this morning. They were chained to their desks by the sheer number of suspects. That was the problem with prison related murders, everyone was a scumbag. Building the profile was hell, they had to look at all the current inmates Kenna interacted with, past inmates, known associates etc. etc. etc. Luckily her partner was an infophile. She'd actually _felt_ his excitement when she'd told him 'he was on his own'. Goren had been happy to wile away the morning in silent contemplation.

Presently, she looked at his form, at his Quasimodo back. His long frame was a deep question mark curve over his papers. From the glazed look in his eye, she doubted he'd even registered her absence, or the that he was creating a crick in his neck.

"Posture Goren." She barked, with enough gruff authority to make him jump.

"What?"

"You're going to hurt your back sitting like that." She whispered her eyes softening. Then she glanced quickly around the bullpen, looking for nosey nellies.

"Thanks." He tucked his shoulders back.

He listened to her. Eames wasn't just a cop and a hairdresser, she was also his masseuse. She was cheaper then staff physio which was only 70% covered by his work plan (he'd checked). At least 2 nights a week, Alex would walk on Bobby's back. He would strip off his shirt, and lie down on his stomach on the living room rug. Then she would step on sockless, 108lbs of channeled pressure. She would walk, then knead, then walk, then knead, curling her toes into his doughy skin. Occasionally she would pause over a knot, and do a slow-mo Chubby Checker twist on the balls of her feet, grinding loose the tight muscles, to his borderline orgasmic groans.

"What've you been up to?"

"Come to 5 with me." He slapped both palms on the mess, and tilted his head at a closed meeting room.

"Just gimme a minute to check email." She gestured at her screen, squinting. There was one from the Warden's office at Brooklyn Fed. _**What the hell.**_ They were finally hitting a wall of silence. No surprise it was from the tight knit group of C/Os that worked shift with Kenna. They had a brotherhood too. She pushed up and clomped across the squad and right into room 5, "The guards on Taylor's shift…" She nearly plowed into a three dimensional spreadsheet. Alex gazed down at the anally straight rows of file folders, sequenced, and lying across the floor. So this was what he'd been doing. Deep sea diving into an ocean of data, percolating on a pattern.

"I didn't know you could play Twister by yourself." She ribbed.

Each file was for a named inmate, each one was open to the final page. She leaned down, it contained hand logged data from random drug screening.

"Last month Brooklyn Fed said they tested 700 inmates or 36% of the total population. Now if 700 is 36%, what is the total population?" He handed her a calculator.

_**Pop quiz time, good thing I was in class that day. **_"1946." She answered.

"Their official manifest reports a population of 1929. They're off by 17 inmates."

"Turnover could explain the discrepancy." She suggested.

"No there's 18 months here. The total number of prisoners it fluctuates, but the discrepancy it doesn't. It's always 17 to 20 off."

"Unofficial prisoners."

"Now the drug stats, they're broken down by cell block, the discrepancy is in C block."

They rose together in choreographed certainty. This was going to be good. They both felt the buzz of righteous indignation, _**people being held without due process? What the fuck! **_That was followed by the zip of a fresh, worthy challenge. Alex was chomping at the bit for a showdown with this federal jail turned Guantanamo.

"The captain's a math-lete he's going to love this." Eames muttered. Penitentiaries weren't the only places full of bean counters. High profile NYPD department heads also always seemed to be holding calculators, or chasing down paper clips. Deakins would enjoy this discrepancy. As they approached, they could see that he wasn't alone.

"CAPTAIN, WITH ALL DUE RESPECT I'D LIKE A WORD WITH THIS DETECTIVE GOREN. Now look, I just want to know what all the questions were about." _That_ was a voice that carried. _That_ was a hothead if ever Alex'd heard one. _**Did I miss the memo, is it St. Patty's day? **_She snarked inside her head, taking in his hunter green suit jacket_._ The irate man with Deakins, would have fit right in at the announcer's booth on a PGA golf tour.

"Detective Mike Logan, meet Detective Eames and Detective Goren. That nurse at Brooklyn Fed happens to be Detective Logan's girlfriend."

"This yours?" Logan stared Goren down, with eyes that said: _**I've never met a confrontation I didn't enjoy.**_ He held up Goren's business card like it was litter.

"Yeah."

"You forgot it."

Everyone but Logan let out a puff of disbelief.

"Detective Logan has a beef about the way she was treated." Deakins clarified.

"She complained to you?" Eames asked. They'd handled that nurse kid gloves, so her agitation all but confirmed their hypothesis, something was going on in that prison.

"Well not in so many words."

"Well it's not her style right? It takes a lot to get her to open up." Goren volunteered quietly.

Logan's smirk barely masked his hostility, " You tellin' me about my girlfriend?"

"Sorry I didn't mean it that way."

"You're investigating the death of a C/O from her prison. So I'm gonna ask you again, is she suspected of something?" Michael Logan commanded the room like they were all his subordinates.

"You know we can't tell you that." Deakins said calmly, purposely pushing buttons that the younger detective probably didn't even know were there.

"I've been a detective for 18 years I think I'd like to join this party."

"As you say we're Major Case, let me discuss it with my detectives."

"No problem maybe I'll have some of your _Major_ coffee." He launched a parting shot over the bow. And Alex hid her appreciation.

"Uh, please sit at my desk. It's one from the gun lockers." Goren called out. All the patronizing was to tenderize the meat. Goren loved people like this. People who wore their shortcomings like a Technicolour Dreamcoat. So far he'd documented pride, arrogance, hard done by, insubordination, and that was the short list. Logan had an overdeveloped sense of protectiveness when it came to women, which Goren knew intimately. It stemmed from some kind of gender power imbalance in the childhood home. Goren figured that Logan had a disciplinarian father, possibly abusive, and a frail mother, possibly a drunk. Mike Logan was an embarrassment of riches for a seasoned manipulator like Robert Goren.

"So this is the Logan that threw a punch at a city councilman 10 years ago, made him a hero to guys like my dad." Eames announced, when the three of them were alone.

"Not to the guys upstairs. He's been buried in Staten Island ever since. Say the word and I'll get rid of him." Deakins replied.

"No." Goren jumped in, _**and spoil the fun already? **_"I think that it would be good to have someone like him around, someone who Gina trusts."

"Only if we can trust him." Deakins looked doubtful, he ordered into the phone. "Get me Lieutenant Van Buren at the 2-7." Then with the receiver pressed to his ear. "You two have something for me?"

"Someone short counting prisoners." Eames handed him a stack of files." Which he didn't have a moment to crack before the 2-7 was back on the line with Anita Van Buren. He waved them out the door. Then back in again like a carousel ride 2 minutes later.

"She said he's a hothead he's honest and she's tried three times to get him back on her squad. As for the short count, correction officers never stop counting counting is what C/Os always get it right so… Secret prisoners?" The Captain's voice was dubious at best.

"If anyone knows about secret prisoners it would be the nurse who's treating them but she won't talk to us." Eames said.

"Well let's see how good Logan is." Goren suggested. And it felt good, after some rough patches with Deakins, to be a part of this three headed conspiracy. It felt like they were his A-Team again.

"Logan!" Deakins called him over across the squad.

And the detective was there in an instant, with smartass bells on. "Should I bring my toothbrush?"

"Your girlfriend Gina you've been seeing her less than a year? Six months?" Goren was no nonsense.

"Five months. I met her on the ferry to Staten Island where she lives."

"She ever mention a protected wing in C block." Goren asked.

"It's where the dead guard worked," Eames added. "Something's going on there. Maybe your girlfriend knows, she's afraid to talk."

"She didn't tell you that that's odd you being her boyfriend." Goren poked.

"Oh hey, I'm not resenting this at all." And Logan caught his foot in their trap. It was bad enough the NYPD had labeled him 'trouble' at work. Now they wanted to crawl under the sheets with him and his girlfriend and critique his manhood.

"Listen to yourself you're too involved we don't get anything out of adding you to the team." Deakins voice was calm, gratingly so. It was, in effect, the voice of every captain that had tried to neuter him. Every dick that had told him he wasn't enough. It lit something in Logan's belly.

Right okay." He looked around at the triptych of faces, each one disapproving of his style. He was used to this. He was used to being rebuffed. And he was used to doing his job twice as well in the face of it. That was why he was on Staten, and not a night security guard at the shopping mall. He left and shut the door. He had a lone mission to run.

"No chance he'll stay out of it now." Eames quipped.

* * *

Alex hadn't been lying to Deakins, Mike Logan was a thing of legend with her father and the geriatric set. On a Saturday evening about 11 years ago, Alex had been 'lucky' enough to witness the real time effects of the Logan 'sentence'. She'd been at her parent's house, for the penultimate game of the NFL season. Her mother had _wisely_ gone to visit her sister Irene in Newark, and Alex had _unwisely_ agreed to help her father 'cater' for his friends. These guys weren't gourmets. She'd spent the whole afternoon with frozen spanakopita and pigs in a blanket, then stirring up chip dip, and making runs to the liquor store.

In the end it'd been a party of 9, a gaggle of cop cronies. All of the guys that night had been loud mouths. All of them flatfoots. All of them staring down NYPD attrition like her dad. One of them, Arthur Copeland had arrived late, with a juicy piece of gossip. Alex could still remember the white haired stocky man, he was built like a battering ram, and he'd probably broken jaws with those meat hook hands. But that night he'd been dancing, like an itchy toddler full of pee.

His news? "Logan is gettin' screwed!"

The men's response had been identical to a touchdown. Spontaneous shouts, wringing of hands, fists shaking. Alex had discreetly plugged her ears, and crept toward the kitchen. She'd still heard a lot of it (even through solid turn-of-the-century walls). Stuff like "What a bunch of pricks!" And "Way to shaft a brother officer!" And "He shoulda hit him harder!" And "Staten is worse then death!" Alex stood behind the kitchen door pulling faces, and mock mouthing 'worse then death'. And feeling just like the smart aleck tween she'd once been.

Those guys had a flare for the dramatic, but they'd planted a seed. They had made her very curious about Detective Michael Logan. She'd followed his career a little, not like a stalker or anything. Just made a note when he made a big collar, or got mentioned in the NYPD newsletter. But she'd never met him. Today he hadn't disappointed. Alex liked his spunk.

"He was interesting." She said casually to Bobby as she pulled into traffic, putting Aziz Gabriel and The Aquatic Emporium behind them. That was PTSD if ever she'd seen it. The kid was terrified.

Bobby was doing his thing, staring through the windshield and flinching occasionally, as if the mental acrobatics hurt him.

"Who Logan?" He roused from his thoughts.

"Uh huh."

"He's a troublemaker."

"I know." She said, with a hint of something.

"Stop that."

"What?" She whipped her head around to look at him.

"Stop acting like he just screeched into town on his motorcycle, extended a hand to you and said 'get on'."

She threw her head back and laughed. "Thanks, that's the best one I've heard in months."

"You like him."

"I like anyone with balls." She said, and the statement had enough truth to placate him through three traffic lights. At which point he added,

"You also like guys that stick it to Deakins, and to me."

She lifted her eyebrows. _**Jesus Bobby,**_ _**let me have a private thought.**_ He'd nailed it. 1PP was so repressed. Alex hadn't realized just how much tension needed to be burst until a human pin had walked into the room. Logan seemed like he wasn't afraid of anything. Next to the rogue detective, Bobby had been a meek school kid. It _was_ only the power of contrast, Alex knew that. And it only seemed so stark because Bobby'd been thrown off balance. Logan had triggered his shyness. Still, it was weird to see her partner in that light.

Alex had grown used to thinking of Bobby as Superman, to deferring to him. To both his knowledge and his authority. She was the senior partner, but somewhere along the way she'd designated him senior intelligence. She'd felt a little zing of pleasure in Deakins office, watching (the less psychologically astute, but awesomely brash) Logan set everyone's teeth on edge.

Of course, in a room full of profilers (schoolyard bully's all grown up) she'd fallen in line and exploited his mental weakness. But later, at her desk, Alex had imagined what it would be like to work a case with a cop like Michael Logan. A traditional cop. A neighbourhood guy that used the power of piss and vinegar. A cop that stood with a palm cupped around his fist, and employed the good old art of intimidation. A cop that got physical with a snitch, but played dumb when he complained. A cop that was scrappy, just the way that she'd been raised. She looked briefly at Bobby across the console. Sometimes he was like a medium, like someone who saw through the veil of reality. He lived in thought. In a constant state of silent distraction. He said things that scared the shit out of perps, because of their acuity. Half the time _she_ thought he had some mystical help.

Bobby's way, the cerebral way, had defined their partnership. Alex wasn't resentful. His way was almost pacifist. She'd gladly fallen in with him. But she'd also kept her signature wit. Splashing it on the bland times like hot sauce. Her real complaint was that he didn't laugh. At least not more then a puff of air. It'd be nice if he _really _let loose, in that wild way, big and raw, with a mouth wide enough to show molars. Her man was _very _composed.

Alex could already tell that Logan wasn't going to set Mensa on fire with his brain. He was everything Bobby wasn't. But he made her want to bust some heads. He made her want to tell a dirty joke. He made her want to share war stories over a beer just to hear him cackle. To Bobby she turned and said,

"Well, he came through. That was a solid piece of information." The postcard the nurse had squirrelled away, had led to the mom, and then to a terrorized looking ex-college student with a now gimpy arm. And the whole ball had been set in motion because Mike Logan had made it personal.

She was impressed.

Alex was also impressed with his loyalty. He was going to the wall for that nurse, Gina. Logan was sitting on a subway car right now, instead of their back seat, because they'd _intimated_ that Gina had turned a blind eye to torture. They hadn't even said it. Logan's behaviour was almost gallant. It was definitely all in. He'd known the woman what? Six months? They were hardly childhood sweethearts, and yet he was accosting Deakins, flipping off them off, all for her honour.

It was stupid.

It was crazy.

It was intriguing.

"Captain has had his eye on Logan for a while." Bobby interrupted her thoughts.

"What?" This was news.

"A while ago he mentioned a Detective he was eyeing, no details. I could tell from today it was Logan."

"That doesn't make any sense. Cap had to call the 2-7 to get a referral. You saw that. He didn't know the guy from Adam."

"Smoke and mirrors. I can read Deakins."

Alex shook her head, "Deakins said, 'say the word and I'll get rid of him.'"

"Sure, read the subtext. He meant it literally. He was asking if we could work with him. If _anyone_ could work with him, or if he was too much to take."

Alex frowned. And then sat silently, rerunning the whole interaction with this one fact overlaid. A hidden agenda. This was how it always was. She and Bobby were always in the same room but at separate meetings. "Well if that's true, I'd say Logan has a few kinks to work out, but he's good."

"I know." Bobby said, "Mike Logan is going to be Major Case."

Alex searched his voice for an inflection. It was flat. There was no judgement. So she said, half joking, "I didn't know Deakins ran his acquisitions by you."

"He doesn't. He alluded to someone. Someone to lighten our load, back when I asked for all that time off."

"Logan." She repeated again. She still didn't quite believe it. Wait until she told her dad.

"Logan." He said firmly.

They went silent after that.

Bobby was busy peering beyond the veil again.

She left him to it.

* * *

"Give me a goddamn break. I'm just telling you what I saw. Not asking you to be Wonder Woman."

"Well who the hell else is going to take care of him? You? With your insane hours. Jack? _Please!_ Men can barely take care of themselves."

"Hire him a cleaning lady. Dad is good for it. We won't even have to pay."

"_You_ hire him a cleaning lady. It not that easy. You have to screen them like nannies. Some can't even clean. Others are charlatans. They'd love to get their hands on that pension, or all the stuff dad doesn't even know he owns. Mom's stuff."

"Oh give me a break dad is ex-PD he's not that dumb, and call a big company, they're all bonded." Alex stood in her living room. She pressed the phone, and her fingers to the side of her face. She'd been doing the Good Samaritan thing by calling Liz. She'd hoped her sister would hear that their dad was living in near squalor, and take care of it. Liz had a maid. Why not ask her for a name? Nothing was ever easy with her sister.

"Haven't you noticed dad's not as sharp he used to be." Alex could hear the 'duh' in her voice. "I think it's early onset Alzheimer's."

"What!?" This was news to her.

"He's forgetting everything." Liz said with spunk.

"He's sharp as a tack." Alex countered. He'd pulled case files out of his memory like he'd closed them yesterday.

"Really? You didn't notice anything?"

Alex's pause said it all. She had noticed a couple of small issues.

"Yeah I thought so. I already made an appointment with a specialist for him." Liz said with nursely authority. "You and Jack figure out the maid." And with a click (and a puff of black smoke) the wicked witch was gone. And Alex added one more duty to a life already drowning.

_**Maybe we're passed a maid. **_She thought.

All joking about the house value aside, it was time to sell. Four bedrooms for one man? Most of them with chock a block with his dead wife's stuff. There was a sewing room for godssake. The three Eames kids, had done an impressive cull after the funeral, but they had been in over their heads. Taking on over 40 years of accumulated clutter, in a few afternoons, was impossible.

Alex mulled over the likelihood of convincing her dad to move. Then the cost of a professional organizer. And then the cost of a moving company. What her dad needed was a home with one bedroom, something on a ground floor, something close to amenities, and something that he owned free and clear. She was going to get the ball rolling on this. As if to punctuate that decision she heard Jude let out a faint wail from his bedroom. She silently prayed that he would roll over and go back to sleep.

_**Fuck being part of the Sandwich Generation.**_

On cue her phone rang again.

* * *

'You are not going to believe..." She flung open the bedroom door, and stopped short. This time Bobby was playing twister without the files. 'What the hell are you doing?"

He was standing in the centre of their king sized bed, or rather squatting. It was a textbook squat actually. His arms were full extended outward behind his back. His hands gripping the headboard. And his gigantic frame was pitched painfully forward. Throwing all the weight onto his toes. He was so precarious, that if he let go he'd do a faceplant into the mattress.

He did not look zen.

In fact there was a bead of sweat on his brow.

"It's a… It's a stress position." He got out.

"Well let go before you have a heart attack."

He ignored her and held fast. He glanced twice at the bedside clock. And she guessed he was timing himself. She put her hands on her hips and gave him a withering look.

"Fine." He grunted and collapsed to his knees.

"So…"

"I just wanted to know what it was like. It wasn't authentic of course. If this were really a torture chamber, my hands would have been tied to the headboard at that angle. There'd have been no letting go. They leave prisoners that way for hours. They pass out, vomit, defecate. That one's called 'the pigeon'."

"Oh good." She oozed sarcasm. "I'm glad they're giving them innocent names. Can't wait to see 'the puppy', or the 'baby Koala'."

"Then it'd be called 'the Joey'."

He _had_ to offer that fact, much the way she _had _to roll her eyes. It was in their DNA.

"So this is what they're pulling at Booklyn Fed?"

"It's likely. The kid's stress injury, he may have been manhandled or maybe they tied him up like a pretzel."

"Animals."

"What won't I believe?" He abruptly switched topic.

She frowned.

"You said 'you won't believe this' when you came in."

"Oh yeah. Tyler has the chickenpox. I just got off the phone with Julia. She suggested we keep an eye on Jude.'

"Jude just got the varicella vaccine. He'll be fine."

"Thank you Mr. Immunization Schedule. Tyler was vaccinated too and it didn't help."

"It should. It should shorten the duration and intensity of his symptoms."

"Bobby. I know you know everything. But can you just listen. Let me vent. Jude has to stay home tomorrow - with who I have no idea, Liz thinks dad has Alzheimer's. I think he just needs to move, or at least get a cleaning lady. We have this case and… It…"

"What are his symptoms?" Bobby asked abruptly, swinging his feet to the floor.

"Jude's?"

"Your dad."

"I don't know." Alex felt her shoulders rise along with her ire. "That's not really the point. The point is _me_, spiralling."

"It'll be fine." He murmured.

Alex rubbed her entire face with the flat of her palm. Wrinkling and ruching the annoyed flesh. Bobby had always scored low grades on practicalities. Even now, living with her, he showed up with a bi-weekly paycheck, which was nice, but he seemed happy to put the joint part of their finances in her hands. Which meant Alex was a cop, a mom, a hairdresser, a masseuse _and an accountant_. Also he struggled with the full spectrum of intimacy. Not sex, not foreplay, he had a lock on those. He struggled with soothing words, and random cuddles, and the 'I'll protect you' back stroke, and the 'women's lib be damned' forehead kiss.

Most days, their home was a police partnership with benefits.

Alex saw Mike Logan flash before her eyes. She'd bet he'd pulled Gina into his arms, and soothed away her Brooklyn Fed nightmares. Told her he was going to kick the world's ass for her. She'd bet, that Gina had protested, and then melted into him. She'd bet, that Gina had kicked him to the curb for a few days, when he'd gone covert ops and searched her place. Gina looked hard. But she'd also bet, that they'd had really hot makeup sex. She'd bet, that there was a lot of fire there. Because Mike was the kind of man that wouldn't be able to turn off his fire.

Alex looked down at her wet noodle. _**Oh Bobby.**_

He was staring at his red hands like they were the Declaration of Independence, or the key to world peace.

"What are you doing?" She sighed.

"Just thinking about how much that hurt." He gestured at the bed. "That prison needs a complete regime change, we need to bring those murderers down and we need to get those secret prisoners out."

* * *

Bobby was pretty sure the moment they entered Brooklyn Fed, that Logan was going to get them killed.

"I guess if we need one we can always borrow from an inmate." The Staten Island detective jabbed, as they gave away their phones and weapons. Highlighting the fact that they were completely defenceless.

Goren looked nervously at Logan. And felt acid lick at his throat. He wished he was with Eames, she knew went to speak and when to shut up, especially in a volatile situation. But he didn't want Eames anywhere near this place. He wouldn't let the mother of his child walk into this pit of vipers. The rule of law had been suspended in here. Alex had agreed to stay on the outside, because Bobby said that he needed Logan to sweet talk Gina. Truth was, Logan would probably antagonize her. Eames was more likely to appeal to her feminine common sense.

As they moved through layers of sliding, locking bars, Goren felt his latent claustrophobia rise up. This reminded him of the scene from To Kill a Mockingbird when Atticus Finch, a gentle rational man had to put down a rabid dog. Only Goren didn't have a gun, so supposed he was going to have to talk down the rabid dogs. These guards were maiming innocents, killing inside their pack, teaming up with wolves. Goren was about to be on the wrong side of the species divide. He had never been in more vulnerable on the job then he was tonight.

"I can't leave they're bringin' in a sick prisoner." Gina ripped her arm away from Logan, just as the angry honk of a double siren sounded.

"That sounds like lockdown."

"Double deuce. Something's really gone wrong." She muttered, and now she didn't have a choice.

Logan grabbed her arm. "We're outta here. Let's go."

The exit was barred. And the pack fell on them. The indifferent steel bars created a cage at their back, and in front of them the guards were all snarling teeth, foaming mouths and blood lust.

"You know for being so far away from the free world you're awful mouthy. You know that people get caught out during lockdown. Get lost, they go through a door that didn't lock. And then like that they're in with the animals. They get eaten alive." Unit Chief Plumm taunted.

"Okay." Logan nodded, "Okay, we understand what you're saying. But I guarantee that we're going to take one of you with us. And the ones we don't, well that's what the death penalty is for gentlemen." And Goren started to think, that maybe Logan wasn't such a liability. In that moment he absolutely believed that the man would die fighting. _**That's his strength, he's a fighter.**_

Goren didn't have his weapon, but he had his wits. Which he aimed, picking the guards off one by one. The weakest link first. The one with the malleable conscience. The one who had given the widow tip money. The educated one. Second he dispensed with the muscle. The one who wasn't as committed. The one who went to church. Third he zeroed in on the vet. The one who been on the real front lines. The one who'd seen real valour. With three down the fourth was naked. Logan looked at Goren talking, and gesturing, and getting into their heads. All that whack-a-doodle psychology stuff, it really worked. _**That's his strength, he understands people.**_

* * *

Goren and Logan stood in the icy night air, staring at each other. It was a loaded glance. It was the look of two men that had come through something. That had formed a grudging detente. It was the look of broader understanding. It was a look of new professional respect.


	41. Chapter 41

It's so quiet in here.

HELLOOOO? HELLOOOO?

I'm taking a hiatus but still writing. Next chapter up soon.


	42. Chapter 42

**A/N: This took forever to write. I probably shouldn't have said it would be up 'soon', although I guess soon is relative. Anyway enjoy. Review or PM your thoughts.**

* * *

**BEAST**

Viktor Yushchenko was the unlikeliest ally.

Especially in the Brooklyn poisoning of a Jersey girl.

But the vague parallels couldn't stop Captain Curiosity. They sent Bobby off on a barely relevant tangent. This was his entrée into the intrigues of Ukrainian politics. Viktor Yushchenko. An economist turned politician. A man with a revolutionist bent. A man with uniquely democratic and capitalist leanings, inside a mainly communist framework. A man aspiring to the title of Ukrainian Prime Minister. Until the evening of September 6, 2004, when he was invited to dine with the leadership of the secret police. A dinner party. The oldest form of human civility, masking the intent to murder. Only later, only when the violent rounds of vomiting began, did it become clear he had been poisoned, and by a mysterious substance.

Even 7 months on, the Yushchenko poisoning was fresh. Thanks to the 24 hour news cycle. Updates of the politician's condition still scrolled by on the ticker that punctuated the cable news. It was still on the front page of newspapers (below the fold). And Goren and Eames were being _actively_ pursued by local reporters. Most notably, Veronica Leary from The New York Ledger who had left them 10 messages a piece. Using trade phrases like 'great copy'. And who could blame her? She'd simply caught an avaricious strain of what had gotten Goren. The thrill that an exotic, international conspiracy might come home to roost.

In the wake of all this buzz, Goren's disease intensified. The symptoms of his were different. He had consumption. Not the 1800's kind with the coughing and the bloodletting. The twenty first century disease, with the surfing, and the clicking, and the antisocial preoccupation with back lit screens. Anything that aimed this cop toward _more_ was welcome, more knowledge, more scope, more desire.

Dioxin was the villain. Sort of. Despite this personification, it was not a natural predator. Bobby's research had him hunched over chemistry texts, and visiting with environmental policy. In scientific terms dioxin was a family of over 70 isomers, highly toxic and man-made. He went to the library (and back in time) to microfiche. Sitting there alone in the stacks reminded him of the sweetness of grade school science fair. He read about a small town in Missouri that had been evacuated by the EPA in 80s for high levels of dioxin in the soil. It was not a real danger unless liberated by incineration or chemical processing. Most people of the Western world were walking around with a quantity of dioxin in their bodies. In these low doses, it was mostly the benign byproduct of a progressive lifestyle.

Fascinating.

All of it.

And the information wouldn't stay down. It climbed up his throat like word vomit.

"Did you know Yushchenko's dioxin levels were 50,000 times regular." He told Eames, who listened, but refused to board his crazy train.

"Hmmmm." Came a noncommittal sound from the kitchen. She had learned to neither confirm or deny, doing either invited more tangents. But moments later Alex emerged carrying a big buttery bowl of popcorn.

"Two packs of Jiffy pop," she announced. "With extra butter and a dash of salt, just the way you like it." Personally, she would have preferred to pop the corn in the microwave (bing bam, boom, you're done), not stand over a hot burner shaking a glorified pie plate. But Bobby was nostalgic. He wanted the stove top version, with real melted butter. Apparently this was one of the few childhood memories he didn't want to detonate. But, Alex noted, he hadn't actually watched the process. He'd stayed on the couch. Which had her wondering if he just wanted to be babied. If this was a sexist yen men had for things prepared by female hands.

"Tuck in." Her told her, lifting his arm, laying it flat along the top of the sofa. And she did. She sat under the eave of his armpit, with her back sandwiched against the length of his side.

"Put on the movie." She urged.

He raised the remote and then stopped, "First I want to…" He flipped it to CNN. "Yushchenko is…"

With bullet-like reflexes, she plunged her hand into the bowl, wrapped a fist around what felt like greasy packing peanuts, and shoved a handful into his open mouth. Then she capitalized on that three seconds of shock. She pulled the remote from his hand, flicked to the DVD setting, and deftly hid the weapon under her backside. It was, perhaps, the most seamlessly executed take down of her entire career.

He glowered around a full mouth, with surprised, saucer brown eyes.

"Would you _please_ stop talking about Viktor Yushchenko. You know, I bet his stock has plummeted since Ebola ate his face. He'd probably welcome a caring lover like you." _There,_ it was out. And while completely factually inaccurate, saying it pleased her intensely.

He sighed and chewed and then said, "This is good."

And she felt a perverse pleasure because she'd won the battle.

Of course he followed up with, "How about Ross? Can I say Lisa Ross?"

"I guess." She said looking wistfully at the 'coming attractions'.

"We're on a case." He informed her, as if that were news.

"I know."

"And we're sitting here eating popcorn."

"Delicious popcorn." She interjected, filling her own mouth.

"We're sitting here eating _delicious_ popcorn and watching crap."

"Oscar nominated crap." She muttered, sensing she'd lost the war. This was the dichotomy between Goren and Bobby. Bobby wanted to relax. Goren couldn't deviate from his mission. If they were on a case, Goren _had_ to work the case. "We agreed we couldn't do anything until tomorrow." She reminded him.

"But I have all this..." He waved his hand over his forehead, looking a little pained.

"Useless Ukrainian trivia swirling around in your head?" She asked rhetorically, because the face, the one he was pulling, was also familiar. It was the Goren look of repressed exposition.

"Yeah, some."

"Okay, I get it, your head might explode." She leaned forward and set the large melamine bowl on the coffee table. "Let's hash it out a little."

"You mean it?" _**Just like a kid.**_

"Go ahead."

He slid back and clapped his hands, an excited reboot. "We know Lisa Ross' levels were 65,000 times normal. And as I said Yushchenko's levels were 50,000." Eames nodded. "Someone thought she was 15000 times bigger game then a 'would be' European Prime Minister."

"That's a lot of anger. Maybe a long simmering grudge?"

"Yushchenko's team of doctors have released proof that his dioxin was not naturally occurring. They said it was so pure, so volatile that it was most likely manufactured in a lab."

"So with our levels even higher." She extrapolated. "And since she _didn't_ lick the inside of the incinerator..."

"Right, we can reasonably hypothesize that ours was too. What else do we know?"

"All the ways it _didn't_ happen." Alex smirked.

She and Bobby had spent yesterday afternoon in the company of Inspector Dokins from the Board of Health. Dioxin was his passion. He'd been a one man dioxin show. Her personal favourite, _'If you bake antibacterial soap in the sun for 10 years, add a little chlorine, you get dioxin.'_ At lunch, she and Bobby had spitballed over who the hell would bake antibacterial soap out in the sun for 10 years. Alex had suggested someone _very_ angry in Arizona, but Bobby had won with, a sentient solar panel.

"Right." His mouth twisted on memories of Dokins. "All of his scenarios were too unlikely. Not clinical enough."

"Clinical? You like the husband for it?"

He didn't answer, instead he stood, locked his hands behind his back, and began to free associate. "Lab, laboratory, gloves, chemicals, _knowledge_, understanding. A history with volatile substances? Maybe. Maybe environmental? Maybe field study. Motive? Malice, anger, jealousy. Jealousy of what? Malice about what? Beauty, infidelity."

He'd learned that Freudian technique from his mentor. But now it was clear that the student _was _the teacher. Alex sat stock still in her 'desk' watching him roll down an invisible path. Hone a profile with random words. She liked observing his process. She loved him. She _admired _him.

"Lisa Ross was no Viktor Yushchenko." He said to Eames. "She was a regular, domestically anchored woman. No travel, no intrigues, no wealth, no opportunity to naturally rendezvous with toxins." Goren didn't envy the Ukrainian government the scope of their whodunnit. But this New York whodunnit was much less sophisticated. Their players weren't covert operatives or rebel factions. "It was someone in her intimate circle. A social contact. Most likely her number 1 or her number 2. Her lifestyle demands it.'

And that was where they focused.

Intuition led, evidence followed.

* * *

Dr. Gregory Ross. A dentist originally from New Castle in Westchester County. He had been married to the victim for five years, but they had remained childless and petless. By all accounts she had married up, and he knew it. Ross held himself in very high regard. His wife had been a stunning accessory to his professional success. His manners and his presentation were beyond reproach. His style of dress was classic. His face inscrutable. Currently they were questioning him with kid gloves in Deakins office. Goren sized the man up again and again. At one point Ross fired up out of his chair. And Goren knew when he stood that it wasn't a move to leave, or compelled by grief. It was strategic. Now he was taller then everyone else, and the most dynamic thing in the room. As the dentist hectored down at them, Goren heard the distilled whisper of the truth after every outburst.

"My wife is dead!" Ross yelled. "My apartment has been ransacked! I've been questioned by the police and the health department, and no one can tell me what the hell happened." Translation: _**This is an unacceptable inconvenience. **_

Deakins spoke in subdued tones. "We understand your frustration Dr. Ross, but we're stalled until we find out how your wife was contaminated."

"My apartment, is it safe to go there?" He demanded. Translation: _**I want to move on.**_

"It tested clean." Deakins assured.

Ross pinched his jaw and winced, looking ready to bolt. This was Goren's favourite time to push, when the stress was psychic _and_ physical. "We have a few more questions. Had Lisa been overseas in the last year?"

"No I don't think she even had a passport." Translation: _**I didn't know her.**_

"Was she in touch with anyone in Europe or England? Maybe a friend or a business contact." Eames asked.

"No not that I'm aware of." Translation: _**I didn't care.**_

"We're sorry for your loss." Deakins soothed.

''Your TMJ is acting up." Goren observed before the Doctor got away.

"It's stress. This is unbelievably awful for me." Translation: _**I wish you people leave me alone.**_

Then he was gone, in all his pomp. When the door slammed Eames rose and moved toward the captain. "It wasn't a lot of laughs for Lisa either."

"He didn't seem all that rattled when you brought up Merry old England. And before you say it," Deakins eyeballed Goren, "if this happened to my wife I'd grind my teeth too."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Bobby laughed breathily at Deakins 'junior profiler'. He also laughed because he clearly had a reputation for being suspicion of physical ailments. He couldn't help it. Human disease was compelling evidence. "I was counting how often he used the words me, my and I." Goren scanned his notes. "Eleven. Eleven me, my's and I's. One she. It's all about him."

Back at his desk Goren considered narcissism. It wasn't uncommon. Most people, exchanged the word with conceit, and thought nothing more of it. But a subsect of the population was walking around with a medically recognized condition, Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Goren scrutinized Dr. Gregory Ross what he knew of the man so far. He pulled out a thick, lined yellow pad of paper, a pen and began to write. The detective had the signposts of several mental diseases locked away in his head. This was one of them. Once upon a time in the Far East Robert Goren had lived in the shadow of a vainglorious man. He'd seen this disorder in technicolour, he already suspected that Ross fell short, but he ran the checklist anyway:

**1\. Grandiosity with expectations of superior treatment from others**

**2\. Fixated on fantasies of power, success, intelligence, attractiveness, etc.**

**3\. Self-perception of being unique, superior and associated with high-status people and institutions**

**4\. Needing constant admiration from others**

**5\. Sense of entitlement to special treatment and to obedience from others**

**6\. Exploitative of others to achieve personal gain**

**7\. Unwilling to empathize with others' feelings, wishes, or needs**

**8\. Intensely envious of others and the belief that others are equally envious of them**

**9\. Pompous and arrogant demeanour**

In the end, Goren gazed at his findings.

Ross presented three out of nine.

They were were just dealing with a run of the mill asshole.

* * *

Eames pulled the SUV out of the parking structure and into the world. They squinted in the noonday sunlight, rolling away from the Westchester MEs Office. "There's something I don't get. Why did it eat her face? Her arms looked fine, her legs looked fine." The question was genius, and in thinking that, Goren wasn't being condescending. It was exactly what they needed to be asking.

Lisa Ross before: blonde, vivacious, the life of the party, divine proportions, and by all accounts, sending out a pheromonal signature that drew men like flies to fly paper.

Lisa Ross after: swollen, cystic, pockmarked, blotchy, blood reddened cheeks, proportions barely recognizable as human.

Goren examined his partner's profile for a moment. He savoured the soft creamy complexion of her cheeks, and the perfect angle of her jawline. His eyes moved over the precious tautness of her skin before answering.

"It wasn't eating her face. Her face was eating it." He replied simply.

"Explain."

"Chloracne, the way the disease presents, is an immune response. When the human body ingests dioxin it immediately takes countermeasures. As it would with any harmful foreign invader. It tries to purge or metabolize the intruders."

"So the welts are…"

"The skin forms cellular clumps that detox the body. They're proof that the immune system is working at full capacity. Why the face is another question altogether, that's less clear."

"That puts a new spin on lepers and teenagers." She quipped.

And he sat back in the bucket seat and enjoyed her simplifications, they were work of art. And he thought about this poisoning. The victim's looks had been a factor from the start, but it was more then that. It was a targeted hate act against Lisa Ross' perfect ratios. It was misogyny. Which was not the exclusive dominion of men. Colleen Dexler. Her sexual jealousy was more then a spat over a male prize. In was soul deep inferiority. It was anger about the feminine ideal. It was rage over a societal concept of beauty. Bobby wondered what had made the likes of Colleen Dexler. Who was she really? That question was propelling them toward her mother in Dobbs Ferry, New York.

The Dexler girls had grown up in a large white colonial with green shutters. It was perfect. The mother inside was less so. "Well finally some answers. You know when I lost my angel, the pastor said that God would reveal in the future, what we couldn't fathom today." Joanne Dexler looked serene in her loss so many years on.

"Is this Colleen or Morgan?" Goren picked up a triptych of photos featuring a precocious child. He did it, more than anything, to establish where the tension lay. The Dexler matriarch didn't disappoint.

"Oh Morgan _of course._ That's from the catalogue she did she was 11. Well, sit sit!" She became positively giddy at the opportunity to share her scrapbooks. They were filled with photos of a daughter locked forever in time.

"She's gorgeous the boys must've been lining up at your door." Eames said.

"Local trash. You know, none of them was good enough for her."

"She did have a boyfriend, didn't she? A dentist?" Goren asked.

"Gregory. A person of quality." Something about this dentist set mother's hearts aflutter. "They were engaged, but he moved away after Morgan died. It was just so heartbreaking."

"It was hard for you seeing your beautiful daughter disfigured."

"She was such a beauty, an angel." Tears pooled in the woman's eyes.

"She was lucky she had Colleen. Did Gregory get along with Colleen?"

"They were friends." Maternal softness vanished.

"Because of Morgan?"

"No. Gregory ate at the restaurant where Colleen worked. She brought him home and then he met Morgan." Her tone made it clear that meeting _her_ Morgan was unadulterated bliss, and meeting Colleen was like meatloaf.

"But he met Colleen first? That must've made for some tension." Eames gently pushed.

"Well not at all. That kind of man _wants a star_."

The stink of that woman clung to their clothes, as they walk down the pretty path and back to the SUV. It wasn't a matter of hatefulness or neglect. She might have been a perfectly adequate mother to one daughter alone. It was the subtle distinction she made between her children. It was the favouritism, the mind games, the clear disregard for her second child's feelings, the unconscious pitting of one sibling against the other. This was a cock fight, masked by the gentile facade of a suburban home.

The car felt like a chamber of solitude. Goren and Eames vacuum sealed themselves inside, and turned to one another to reconnect. In a revolting symbiosis (whether planned or not) Gregory Ross and Colleen Dexler were being revealed as potentially equally culpable. As predicted Lisa Ross' greatest enemies were her closest allies. It was a story as old as time. Alex pulled onto the small residential street, then glanced at him and said,

"Maybe we don't have to choose one. Maybe they're both good for it."

Goren closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Ross and Dexler would turn on each other. And they both had equal opportunity and motive. He felt very tired all of a sudden. He felt ready to see this petty little case finished. Alex glanced over again, taking in his reclined head and closed eyes. There were ashy circles beneath them and lines she hadn't seen before. He was ageing. Not a startling transformation, but a slow grind. She imagined he saw the same in her. But she worried more about things like this.

His cell phone pinged in the silence. And he sprung to life. Sitting straight scrolling slowly. It was an email. It was a social invitation. The attachment was an itinerary. A slow smile spread over his face. And Alex was grateful to whoever had reminded him to be happy.

"What?" She asked, smiling too. "Tell me."

He held up the message and she craned her neck to see.

There was an unspoken 'May I?' In his silent show and tell. It was a bit emasculating to ask permission, and yet with a baby, and a case, asking was mandatory.

"When?" She inquired.

"Thursday."

"Yep. Go. We'll make it work."

They were hurtling toward the point where the case would overwhelm to him. The 'ripped from the headlines' ones always did. Together they counted on the white noise of normal life to _come down_. But this was a local human interest story, that dovetailed with an international story, that dovetailed with Bobby's info-philia. And they were trapped in that tower of circumstance. "You need a break from all of these toxins." Alex said. _**Chemical and human.**_

* * *

It was Thursday. Goren was standing inside Terminal 1 at JFK. He paced between rows of metal chairs bolted to the ground, in front of a gargantuan neon sign that read Greenwich Village Bistro. He looked at his watch. He scuffed the tip of his Oxford on the terrazzo floor. _**Fuck Dec. Enough already.**_ He made his way over to a thin screen cantilevered off the wall. He panned the arrivals in real time. And right there in the centre, highlighted in fluorescent green was: **CA 7610, ON SCHEDULE, 18:45**. Declan Gage was in this airport somewhere, and had been for an hour and 15 minutes, according to his itinerary. Goren dug deep in the pocket of his slacks and pulled out his cell. The cast of a third artificial light washing over his stern face.

_**Yep, no mistake.**_ This was the right flight, the right time, and the right place. There it was, written in black-and-white with no pleasantries. Exactly Dec's style. Bobby wasn't green enough to show up to receive an international flight, without allowing at least an hour for customs. But now he was getting antsy. He'd been waiting for 15 minutes. And he was being as melodramatic about it as a silent film actor. What a bunch of neck rubbing, hair ruffling and torso twisting he was doing. Anyone might have thought he was limbering up for a run. And there were thousands of 'anyones' around. The place was teeming with people. Still, 15 minutes was hardly a crime against humanity. The truth was, he was nervous. He hadn't seen his mentor in almost 8 years. A lot had changed in 8 years. And Dec was both shrewd and brutal. Everywhere the man went he wielded his observations like a samurai. Declan Gage didn't care what people thought or felt, and as harsh as that sounded, it was his superpower.

Bobby imagined their reunion, Dec would stop cold at 20 paces away, make a shrewd assessment of his former pupil, and then loudly and publicly label Goren's gut a crime scene. "You always had a weakness for beer." And Bobby would give a meek head tilt, because this was price of family reunions. Make no mistake, this was a family reunion. Dec had been the only father he'd ever known. Well, that was a little hyperbolic. He still considered Walter his dad. He still wrote 'Walter Goren' on government forms in the father slot. But Declan Gage had focussed him, channeled him, held him personally accountable. Declan had made him a man, and wasn't that a more apt definition of father?

But back to his predictions.

Fantasy Declan would hug Bobby's new abdominal inches, and tell him how he was "Wasting his talents with a bunch of donut eating bureaucrats." And Bobby saw, his own response in vibrant three dimensional mediocrity. He would defend Major Case with some platitude (that didn't even begin to approach the satisfaction he was currently feeling on the job) like "It could be worse." Or "It's not half bad." Because, and here was the ironic twist, parents (or surrogate parents in this case) made a child into an adult, but they could also reduce an adult to a child. And Dec would merely quirk an eyebrow (kind of like Eames) a mysterious tick that punctuated a silent judgement. Declan had been trying to lure him back to international intrigue for awhile. So, in addition to noting his freshman… Er… Um… new relationship 15, Bobby fully expected his mentor to catalogue his brand of shirt, wiff at his new cologne and marvel at how orthotics had evened his gait. Then he would lean in, in a lasciviously conspiratorial way, and tell him exactly who he was screwing, for how long, then why and when it would come to bitter conclusion.

Which was why Goren had considered a lobotomy for this dinner.

Dec didn't know (and wouldn't know!) that he had been usurped in his student's mind by someone else. First by the supernova that was Alex, and then the repercussive booms that were Jude. In utterly different ways. But they were totally mentally comprehensive. Bobby would have to be rigidly on guard against any sentimentality toward his new life. More then rigid, animatronically dedicated to his inner script. Though, on the bright side, he doubted Declan would be able to infer any filial connection with Jude. Declan was free range. Declan didn't have a clue about being a Daddy. Declan's parenting style was philosophical and instructional. But still _**EN GARDE!**_

When the two of them had been in a South Korean 'chwijosil' together, they had terrified suspects. Their Caucasian bumbling had created a stir. Even then, at his prime, Declan had been a few bars short of a jail cell. He had pissed people off, been wild and absent minded. Respect was in the South Korean DNA. The term hierarchy was virtually synonymous with love of country. Flipping off protocol was NEVER the way. But he had. It was a good thing they'd been specifically requested. A good thing they were in league with the law. It was a good thing that when Declan Gage - wiry, disheveled, pale faced - had opened his mouth, it was like pure vertigo. He spoke impeccable Korean in the dialect of the Jeonju region.

Those years circa 1983 were formative for Goren. He'd watched his weird mentor manipulating criminals, and he'd assimilated a lot of it. Some of Dec's quirks were now his. And Declan's erratic behaviour had been an odd comfort, to an oddly homesick Sgt. Goren. Of course, Goren had never had the same ease with Gage as he did with Eames. He'd mostly stood back in awe. After all Dec was his superior in age, experience and rank. Back then, a timid Goren had hoped to be _half_ the man and profiler Declan Gage was. Bobby would never forget the starstruck day he'd told him so. Dec hadn't blushed or poo pooed the compliment, on the contrary he'd stared his apprentice down and said, "Bobby my boy. Good luck." Today with over a hundred cases under his belt, Goren realized that Declan had been his first foray in Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

"Bobby?" A soft curious feminine voice said his name and he whirled.

"Jo?" His eyes blurred, and then focused on the woman in front of him. He superimposed this face, over the tween still locked in a cameo in his mind. He was awash with déjà vu. And yet she was a stranger. "Wow Jo!" He bent and embraced her lightly, noting that she hadn't grown much since then. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Well you know dad. Two birds one stone."

Bobby's lips quirked, that was Dec exactly. He would only factor his own convenience. It was a long layover between Beijing and Brazil. "I thought you'd entertain each other." He mocked Declan's voice.

"Right." Jo laughed, "Like he ever considered anyone that didn't have a body count."

"So..." Bobby looked around, almost praying for Dec to materialize. It wasn't that he didn't like Jo, or that she wasn't amusing company, it was just thoroughly awkward. With horror he realized _**This is a blind date!**_

To her credit Jo seemed equally uncomfortable. Her gaze slowly panning the hanger style room, flitting over the kiosks and rafters, looking for a talking point. Finally she gestured at the bistro, bright and garish. It was a clarion call to hungry passengers. "This is festive." She said.

"I know." The signage was tacky. Inside on the walls was 80's geometric wall art. Overlaid on that were tube light installations. They looked like dayglow balloon animals, set to pounce on diners. Bobby felt tension gather in his jaw. Airports were exhausting.

"Who picked this place?" Jo asked with derision.

"Your dad, we needed somewhere pre-security, it was either this or the food court."

"Well you want to…" She looked around again. "Sit down?"

He looked around too. Clearly all this looking around was the equivalent of scanning for emergency exits on a nosediving Airbus.

"Sure." He said at last. They grabbed the only three seater available at the back of the shallow bar.

"I hope he shows up soon." Jo said between drink orders and some nervous cutlery manipulation.

_**Dear God Declan**_ Bobby cursed in his mind. _**This is awkward.** _"So… what've you been up to?" He tried.

"Oh not much. NYU and I'm working at a bar in Soho, just to pay the bills for now, you know how it is." She took a sip of her cranberry vodka, a short sharp tug that belied her comfort, holding the little green skewer with her thumb as she drank. He watched her pink tongue dart out to swipe at the lime. Then she jumped a little, as if remembering something. "Oh and I'm thinking of applying at Quantico in the fall."

_**Thank god for a topic. **_"Just like your old man."

"Well maybe like him one day." She said it in a self depreciating way. It reminded Bobby of himself 20 years ago. "For now just your standard new recruit."

He looked at Jo, with her medium length blond hair, her deep set eyes, and the dent in her chin that could unflatteringly be called a hook. She was prettier than he remembered. Back then she'd been 11, maybe 12 and very awkward. Her clothes had hung off her like drapes, her mouth had been heavily fortified, every word revealing shiny metal suspension bridges, over unevenly spaced teeth. Her affect had been shy, and her aura had been ghostly. She had hunted the spaces they were in, never saying much but omnipresent.

For Goren it was a bit of a profiler boon, to see what time had shaped out of little Josephine Gage. She was a fully formed woman now, on her own in the big city. Sitting across from Jo made him reassesses his earlier sentimentality. Maybe parentage was irrelevant. Maybe each person came forth on a trajectory, neither enhanced nor compromised by the two people who'd introduced them to the world. It seemed to Goren that most wounds were self-inflicted. And further, that the influence that _any_ situation, had on _any_ individual was completely subjective. Jo had been dealt a rough hand. She'd come of age with an absentee father and a dead mother. She'd lived in a home wallpapered with mutilation and gore. And look at her now, a little odd, but high functioning.

"Do you remember that time that dad brought me to a crime scene?" She started, almost tapping into his thoughts.

"How could I forget that patrolman on duty kept saying, 'this is not a high school field trip!" She remembered with glee, and they chimed together one more time, "This is not a high school field trip!" Then broke into snickers.

"To be fair dad told me to stay in the car." Jo said.

"To be even fairer, it was a jumper, and the guys brains were splashed all over the sidewalk. Even if you'd stayed in the car, you shouldn't have been there." He remembered that case like it was yesterday. They hadn't been able to cover up all of the pieces of taupe tissue, the sidewalk had looked like a jelly mould explosion, forget about the shards of bone matter.

"I know. But I was so curious."

"And so desperate to get his attention." Bobby still thought she'd left the car just so the Declan would reprimand her, and send her back. Funny thing was he hadn't. That patrolman had.

"You saw that? I didn't think you saw me at all back then. I didn't think anyone did."

He _had_ seen her, and he was ashamed. Jo had been an albatross. The only time Declan ever hesitated was when he remembered Jo. She would always be in the room and for a while Bobby, had couched the conversation. Using euphemisms to talk about sexually mutilated women and gruesome incisions. Until one day he realized he couldn't be bothered. Why should he? Declan was oblivious and _he_ was her father. After the tacit decision that Jo was irrelevant, the piles of crap had grown exponentially. Paper court records, hysterical 911 calls played on a loop, books on serial killers, full colour graphics, large scale images of the victims, dummy re-enactments. It had all bled across the boundaries of rooms, from the dining room initially, out to the kitchen, then the living room, then down the main floor corridors. Back then the Gages had lived in a Victorian era home, already mildly creepy due to age, and Declan's idiosyncrasies: like blocking out windows to stop the natural light from fading his death collages. But together he and Bobby had turned it into a house of horrors.

"Are you squeamish?" Jo asked suddenly. "Can I tell you a story?"

He gave her a look, part amusement part perplexity. It said _**are you kidding me squeamish after 156 murders**_. "No Jo, I'm not squeamish."

"When I started my period." She began.

_**Whoa Nelly!**_ Bobby's male psyche fought this line of conversation with _all_ of it's superior upper body strength. He'd thought she was going to tell him something academic, not about her cycles.

"Uh huh." He said, fortifying with a gulp a beer, adding extra 'ulp.'

"Mom was already long gone. I was freaking out. I was the most mature immature little girl in the world." She laughed at the opposing truths. "So, I ran out of the bathroom one night convinced I'd been poisoned, right," she laughed, bit her thumbnail and lisped a little on the word poisoned. "because it was more logical to me at that time, that I'd been poisoned, or stabbed in the vagina, then that I started menstruating."

Bobby mentally recoiled.

"You want to know what dad said?"

His nod was succinct.

"He said, 'you are dying Jo, of biological inferiority.'"

The place was full of patrons but for Bobby time stopped for at least seven full beats.

"How could you remember that?" He asked at last.

"I wrote it in my diary." She said. In response to the skeptical plunge of his brow, she nodded vigorously. "I did. Along with the stages of decomposition and Roberts Rules of Order."

A supporting memory came to mind when she said 'order', he quoted Declan, "The only thing that separates us, from them, is civility."

And Jo chimed in once again catching the words 'them is civility.'

More booze fueled laughter.

"That's not even the good part." Jo wasn't done. "The good part was when he studied medieval excommunication."

"What do you mean?" Bobby squinted.

"Don't you remember? Dad went through this period of interest, _no obsession_ with medieval forms of murder? Quartering, boiling, the guillotine."

"I remember." Bobby said, because he did. Declan was versed in five languages, he had 3 degrees, two of which had and entailed cultural immersion, in England and Korea. And he'd also done thesis quality research on pet projects, like the one she was speaking of.

"I think he was toying with the idea, that back then, pre-technology, excommunication was tantamount to murder. But I'm not totally sure. I wasn't that smart." She laughed, "but I was smart enough to understand how he was treating me. He was ignoring me during my period."

"Why would he do that?" Bobby braced, his back sickly stiff. He was not ready to hear some paedophilic dark secret about the man he called dad.

"I think... I think because he couldn't stand idea of it. The bleeding with no wound. So he used it. To see what it would do. He stopped talking to me and touching me. Maybe to see if I associated," she swallowed hard, "_would come to_ associate the treatment with my… my sex... my sexuality. To see if gender differences are only skin deep. To see what effect being ignored had on the human psyche."

Bobby felt his muscles pulse but he wouldn't move. She might feel judged. And yet the urge for flight was overwhelming. To scrape back his chair, and knock the table - unintentionally sloshing their drinks, and mutter something about an early day. But he stayed, tensed. And for preservation, his mind slid away from Bobby and toward Goren, his analytical persona.

Throughout their association, Declan's white whale had always been the female serial killer. Or rather the myth of the female serial killer. He didn't believe one could exist. And he didn't understand women. Enter Jo. Here nature had gone and given him the perfect subject in the form of a daughter. Bobby realized then, that he believed her. He _believed_ her. So he affirmed her by saying.

"He wanted to see if you would rage and retaliate," _**like a man**_. "Or accept and retire." _**Like a woman.**_

"Something like that I think." She laughed again, and Goren started to pick up on a pattern of unhinged laughter.

He leaned in close, bridging most of the distance across the small square table. She smelled of cinnamon and alcohol. He twined his big arms on the glossy wooden top, as if the solid weight of his presence and his professional opinion could stabilize her. But what could he say? Comfort would fall on deaf ears. Trying to remind her of how much Declan loved her was laughable. So he said,

"It was a single test subject, it would have no scientific meaning. Maybe you misunderstood."

"No. No. I don't think he cared about the science." She smiled. "I think he was reinforcing a personal conclusion." For a moment she looked utterly broken.

"Oh Jo." The words were barely a whisper on his lips.

"I don't want to bring us down." She laughed and touched his arm and rallied. "I'm all grown it's a non-issue. Dad and I are good, _really_ good now." And there was no corroborating proof of that. The conspicuous absence of dad was all the moment offered. Bobby looked at his watch. It had been two hours since that plane landed. Unless Declan was trying to smuggle in some Chinese herbs, something was wrong. "I don't think he's coming.' He said. 'Has he sent you a message?" Bobby's own phone lay silent on the table top.

"I had a hysterectomy" She blurted out.

He froze again. Something cold snaked through his gut.

"I had so much cramping. I was just so glad to see it go in the end. So glad." She smiled.

But she wasn't even 30. She would never have a family. She would never… What credentialed medical professional would _ever_ agree to such a thing? What had she done to make herself a candidate? He stared into her eyes, brown meeting brown. A fixed gaze over a psychological minefield, the proportions of which he had _never_ anticipated when he agreed to meet Dec for an hour or two.

He couldn't fix this.

He couldn't even try.

"I'm sure you did exactly the right thing." He said.

Her smile was small and wan but there.

When she cheerfully changed the topic, the led zeppelin weighing on them morphed into the 'benign' hydrogen kind and lifted off. "So what's going on in your life? I know you're on fire at work. Any romance?"

If anyone else had tried to travel this road with him, Bobby would have shut them down hard. But his most recent guzzle of beer was chasing a cocktail of sympathy (and horror, and worry, and goodwill). He had an irrepressible desire in that moment to treat Jo well.

"Maybe." He answered uncharacteristically coy.

"I don't know where you find the time. I heard you made Major Case. I saw you on the news." She looked so proud of him. She looked like she'd sired him herself.

"Yeah it's a roller coaster, a good one, it's very interesting work."

"And you're dating."

He nodded.

"What's your partner's name again." She asked innocently, but a small glint in her iris told him she'd caught the thread of something.

"Eames. Alexandra Eames."

"Paired with a girl!" Jo laughed. "Dad would go nuts."

"She's good, almost as good as Dec."

"Don't let him hear you say that." Now her laugh was positively ruckus. As if the thought of irritating Declan tickled her. And Bobby observed that she was still had her father on an uncomfortably high pedestal.

Jo leaned way back in her chair, her eyes deeply speculative. "You know, I think you might be sweet on her."

Goren didn't startle or twitch. But he did purse his lips a little. "What makes you say that?"

"I don't know. The famous Gage intuition. Am I right?"

He didn't crack.

He really didn't.

But he did hedge.

Because he pitied her. He wanted to give her camaraderie, he wanted to reestablish her membership in a tribe. _Any_ tribe. He let a 'yes' play on his features. It flashed so quickly that a blink would've missed it. Jo never blinked.

"Good for you!" She lauded, as her phone pinged.

"It's dad." She shook her head with exasperation. "He never left Beijing." She read the small screen, "His trip got postponed _last week._ He forgot."

Bobby waited for his own corresponding message. None came. _**Fuck you Declan! **_He silently raged, against everything. Against his mentor, and shitty parents, and toxins, and this ill-fated dinner date. Then his shoulders sagged on an exhale. He was in it for the long-haul. "Do you want eat or just leave?" He asked already knowing her answer.

"Eat!" She said, _so_ happily.

"Okay let's eat."

* * *

It was a long drive home after that.

Bobby sat in the dark, trying to reconcile the Declan he knew, that strange, comforting, genius. With the man he had glimpsed tonight. He weighed the odds of her outright deception, exaggeration or misinformation. But something in him resonated with Jo's story. Her father had never treated her right. She clearly had undiagnosed PTSD (among other things). **_What did you do Declan?_**

He was a God.

He was a beast.

Declan Gage was a vicious, narcissistic, animal with no regard for the sanctity of human life. All those years, _all those years_ when Bobby had been vindicating the victimized through every thought word and action. Declan had been taking their psyches for a joyride. He had been becoming one of them. Declan had taught Bobby that the tangible evidence of a crime - the way the victim looked, the way the perpetrator looked, the time of day, the choice of disposal, the clothing worn, the weapons used - were all ancillary to the mind. Each and every item was a manifestation of a singular deviant perception. That knowledge had enthralled him. It had given his life purpose. The items of murder always seemed as dead as the victim, until he could hold them, make then vibrate under his touch, vibrate with the knowing of their inception. A profile was nothing more than a grasp of inception. Declan Gage had taught him that.

He was a God

He was a beast.

* * *

Alex caught her 18 month old monster, and lifted his sturdy body over her head. Then she eased onto her back, tilting him, like an inversion table would, so she could make upside down faces. Then she lowered him for a kiss. Then raised his squealing body again. Jude was perfect. He was big and rambunctious and happy. And she called this move the 'parent press.' At 28, wriggling, pounds he was more than a fair substitute for free weights. And his unpredictable movements engaged her core. And of course it was loved up lunacy, the way they couldn't get enough of each other.

Just then keys dropped into the basket by the front door.

Alex looked over at the grim, Bobby shaped, mass emptying it's pockets. "How's Declan?" She asked wryly. She'd never met this mysterious Declan, but she knew more about him than her own left foot. And she hadn't been invited because, apparently, he was perceptive enough to make a Russian spy at 300 metres.

"He never showed." Bobby bit out.

"What? You've been gone for hours."

"His daughter was there."

"Jo." Alex supplied. That name also had no significance to her on a woman. But again, she felt like it did.

"Right Jo," He was ripping off clothes now, like it was bedtime in the foyer. What it was, was time to be out of this cootie suit. He'd been slimed. He didn't stop stripping until he gotten down to boxer briefs and a white undershirt. "I had the most awkward dinner of my life with Jo."

Alex watched the striptease with amusement. "I guess."

Bobby felt wrung out, like a limp old dish towel. He had just reassessed everything he'd believed from 1982 through 1992. And now suddenly he was in this apartment, with its warm arms and beautiful domestic vignette. It was almost too far the other way. From horror to glory. Alex seemed to glow in the lamplight holding his boy. This was soft Alex. Motherly, womanly, domesticated. He _loved_ soft Alex. Would she and Jude object if he sat down, snatched them both up, and layered them on top of his body like a weighted blanket?

The thought didn't get a smile, but intellectually he knew it was funny.

He frowned.

It was still bothering him.

It was bothering him that he'd loved Declan while he was sadistic.

That he still loved Dec.

He frowned again.

He stood there, stoned, in his underwear, on the threshold of his living room. He knew he needed to find peace on this issue so he could sleep tonight. Alex stood up, and came over to him (leaving their creation babbling on the floor). She used her thumb to push at his frown. Then she put both of her hands on his cheeks, feeling the prickle of his 10 o'clock shadow. Then she pulled him down and kissed him raw. She _prioritized_ him. And because of her easy love, and against the warmth of her the answer came. A good teacher took on a student where they were, without judgement, because to learn a person needed a safe space. But conversely, a teacher could only take a student as far as they had gone themselves. And that was the moment he'd cleaved off from Declan, when he had learned all he could. Declan may have whittled him from a found block of wood. But, when they had parted ways, he'd still been roughhewn. No hand had ever grazed him without getting a splinter. All those partners before _her_ were proof of that. But Alex, was the second part of his education.

"Awwww." She was making a sentimental noise, and she was making it at him. "So serious."

His frown didn't budge.

His face hadn't caught up with his heart yet.

"I'm sorry it sucked. I know you were really looking forward to seeing Dec." She said.

He shrugged.

"Cheer up." She coaxed smoothing her hands down his arms.

"Why?"

"Because it's not that bad." She nuzzled his nose. "It's over, you're home."

"You're warm." He sighed, thawing.

"And cuddly." She rubbed against him.

'Mmmmm." His hands slipped low and cupped her, pulling her closer.

"There's another reason to smile." She whispered in his ear.

"What?"

"Tomorrow we're going to take down the dentist and his sycophant."

"Both of them? You promise?" _**Just like a kid.**_

"I promise."


	43. Chapter 43

**A/N: Here's my latest instalment. Following my trend, it's longer and more in depth than any previous chapter, which makes me nervous. Will anyone actually _get_ it? I shall see. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

**MY GOOD NAME**

Carmel Ridge was nothing to look at. It might even be called ugly. It had been built in the 1960s at the height of the brutalist architectural movement. The building was completely unadorned, as the style dictated. No corbels, no gables, no columns, no fluting nothing that could be mistaken for whimsy or welcome. The face that greeted you on approach was flat and racially ambiguous. The concrete had been mixed to match the dingy gray of sickly skin. In low light you wanted to call it brown, in mid light beige, but no, it was always gray, definitely gray.

The building had no expression, blank. As blank as a man on high doses of lithium. One long, wide, flat pronounced strip of concrete dominated the facade, a unibrow thick and unplucked. Nestled beneath was an equally long seamless row of windows that functioned as dim glazed eyes. It was a two story building, on a large plot of land just at the edge of a mixed use suburban neighbourhood. And it was vast, making up in spread for what it lacked in height.

The landscaping was inviting. Conical yews, a few willows weeping, topiary boxwood bushes and a grove of cherry blossoms, which silently held their ground all year long, but exploded in a tantrum of pink during the spring. It was all very lush, all very green. Gardens were the one thing bureaucrats always seem to get right. There was a distinctly Japanese flavour to this one. Plantings along the front were stylized, almost fantastical. Which made perfect sense because in the back there was a fully realized garden with running water and benches. Obviously some tuned in person on the planning commission had decided this would help relax, comfort, _sedate_ the population inside. Unfortunately nothing about the sharp corners and beveled edges of the building occurred in nature, and so it ended up feeling starkly antagonistic towards the soft earth below.

Like all buildings of this kind, Carmel Ridge had land, not only to accommodate the footprint, gardens and sprawling parking lots, but well in excess of what was needed. Acres, upon acres, upon acres, of buzz cut grass. Nice and low like the head of a military man. To be fair there _was_ more space to sprawl, this was Harrison, New York on the cusp of Bronx County, but the wide open spaces smacked of municipal waste. Why not integrate the building into the community? Why not pepper the plot with businesses and homes? Bobby knew exactly why, it was a tactic to relieve the uncomfortable tension surrounding the mentally ill. The stigma was whispered on the wind. And so the leaves and grass were a lead-in or a moat, depending on your perspective.

Inside there was a tall peach reception desk (an 80s retrofit no doubt) and a team of 2 to 4 women manning a black switchboard. For Bobby the process was the same every time, an electronic sign in, clearing his weapon (if he had his weapon), clipping his visitor's pass in place, then moving through another set of doors. Through them Carmel Ridge was a warren of halls, each a fluorescent lit runway, each with identical maple wood doors at 4 foot intervals.

All those doors.

Sometimes Bobby ran his hand across the grain of them, and let his fingertips bump over the casing as he walked down the halls. Sometimes he imagined what mental infirmity lay behind each barrier. It was dizzying, the prospect that all these people were struggling with sanity. His mother was a schizophrenic, but maybe room 116A was bipolar, maybe room 125C was depressive. There were also addicted people here, another kind of mental tyranny, so maybe 215B was trying to kick a heroin habit, or maybe 162D was addicted to prescription Vicodin. His mind went wild with the possibilities. Morbid possibilities, but likely in a place like this. It was a good day when he observed the doors without markings. They were portals to janitorial closets, or linen lockers. The rooms where he imagined all the private conversations took place. Where newbie interns got a dressing down, where doctors and nurses gave in to passion on piles of green hospital scrubs. Those blank door days only came when he was firmly 'Just Visiting'. Much like landing on the edge of the jail square in Monopoly. After your 12th, 15th, 35th cycle around the game board, landing there was common, tedious even, there was no pay off. But really there was, a psychological one, it was knowing that you were _in_ this place, but not _of_ it. That was how he felt on the light days.

Other days, visiting was particularly hard on Bobby. On those days his mind was a steel trap against all games or frivolity. He walked down the halls with lead in his shoes. Imagine it. Imagine such a life, from the bullpen, to parking garage, into a tousle with winter traffic, to this, an insane asylum. It was no better than passing through the clanking gates of a federal penitentiary. And there was no liberation in his skull. Prisoners had time, and in that lull they could cultivate imagination and be free. Bobby was on the clock, always at the mercy of its incessant ticking. The ticking was a metronome for murder. Behind his eyes he could only see gruesome pictorials to puzzle out, pathetic casts of characters to vet - a malevolent mother, an indifferent stranger, a vicious cousin. Suspects, all. The world was a potential suspect.

But today wasn't so bad. And again he found himself counting doors. Only one door was 'his' door. 133B.

His mother's house.

Bobby announced himself with one knuckle, the five lyrical taps from 'Shave and a Haircut.' But never the last two, the last two notes were always her singing "_Come in._" It was their bit. Their tiny Broadway. It had been for years, and it never failed to lift his spirits. He pushed open the door on a familiar squeak and smiled at his mom.

"Where's is my grandson?" She rasped from the bed, before pleasantries, before anything. Bobby stared her down wearily. _**So it's going to be like this today.**_

Frances Goren was in a hospital but she wasn't wearing it's costume - the open backed gown or the white bleach burned robes, stamped with the letters C.R - C.A.M.H on the wrist and collar. She was not sick. She had never given in to infirmity. She had always maintained that she was a prisoner of war. She sat atop the made bed, which she'd adorned with her own colourful duvet. It was a remnant from a time when she'd had a house. She was dressed smartly in a cream cowl necked sweater and brown slacks.

Bobby saw only one possible solution to this problem, distraction. Like a magpie his mother could sometimes be redirected by shiny new things. Like a case. "We caught a big one yesterday," he said, ignoring her. "Big fish, someone you'll see on the news. No proof yet, but it looks good."

Her mouth was a thin line. Her arms were crossed over her chest. He could see he had her on the ropes, she was _almost_ intrigued, so he kept going.

"I can't give you a name but you'll hear about this one. He used to be a Chief of D's. A Chief of Detectives." He clarified. "Like, my boss's boss." He told her all this even knowing that she could figure out a name. And with that name cause trouble. When his mother was on break from reality she would try and call the President of the United States. Still, he didn't think there was much chance she would make it through Frank Adair's bevvy of personal assistants, and pockets-full of devices. "It's shaping up like a bestseller." He said, "Infidelity, a love triangle, corruption. This guy, this suspect, he dines with politicians, and has cops for friends. He used to _be_ a cop. And now he's about to run for public office." There was a natural gleam in Bobby's eye as he said all this. And it had nothing to do with the game he was running on his mom. It was about the case. This case was juicy. It'd been along time since they'd stuck it to someone powerful. They'd had a few of those in the past. People with something to lose. People with money, people who saw the world as their playground and everyone on it is as either competition, constituents or chumps.

"You think you can distract me with stories about this muckety muck?" She came in off the ropes swinging. "_I know you_. I know what you're doing. Where is my grandson?"

"Not today Ma, he's with his mom."

"_That woman_? That woman that answers your phone every time I call?"

"Yeah that woman." He confirmed slipping off his scarf and overcoat, and hanging them in her closet.

Jude wasn't with Alex. Jude was with the nanny. But he spoke for simplicity's sake. He'd spare them both the silly yarns that made up the tapestry of his life. He had told her gallingly little. And _God_ had she pressed him. Pressed like a pile of rocks on a Salem witch. But he had remained steadfastly mum. If there was one thing Frances Goren could do (perhaps the _only_ thing she could do, here in her metaphorical straightjacket) it was take a complicated situation and turn it into a complete quagmire. Bobby reminded himself of that every time he felt like over sharing.

"Are you going to marry her?"

"Yes." His heart picked up, thumping in his chest. His mother had asked him this before. He had responded identically. She knew the answer. He knew the answer. So why did she keep asking? There were no chemical reasons for her repetitive behaviour. Her mind wasn't murky from her drug regime. She wasn't compromised by age. She was quite simply an expert at psychological fuckery. In that respect he was his mother's son.

_**Was he marrying this girl? Yes.**_ She would continue to ask if he was marrying this girl until she'd met the woman in question, until she got an invitation to the wedding, or until she died. Bobby had often wondered if her eccentricities were a byproduct of the disease, of viewing the world in such a skewed manner. And he decided it was equally probable that this was her natural state. He couldn't remember. To Bobby his mother had only ever been one woman, this one. Luckily he'd intellectually surpassed her. He could clearly see the devices she used to manipulate him. Of course his awareness was purely intellectual. It never prevented him from taking the bait.

"What? You're embarrassed by your mother? You don't want to bring this girl around? You don't want her to see my _condition_. You don't want her to know you got family in the loony bin?"

"She knows. She knows everything about me Ma."

"_Then why doesn't she come and see me!"_ She said it with such annoyance, such ramped up self righteousness that he recoiled a little. Even in a suit and wingtips his mother still turned him into a bitch.

He squared up his shoulders, tilted his chin forward, then looked way down to meet her eye, "Because I won't let her." It was a rare moment of manliness for him.

His mother pulled up in bed, swung her legs over the side, and fixed her hawkish glare on him. "You won't _let her_?"

Bobby tried not to take a step back, he failed, sort of, doing a lateral shuffle. "I won't let her. We're not married. Sh… She's important to me but…" He left the implication hanging that Alex was a passing fancy, and that betrayal stung him like a hoard of bees defending the hive. He screwed up his courage even further. "Stop meddling! This is our time. Stop getting distracted by things that don't… that are none of your business." That was all the moxie in him for today. He fully expected her to tell him to leave. She had done it before. Rejected him. And that would be fine, if it was just this visit, this moment of surface disagreement, fine. But it wasn't. In doing so she rejected his commitment, his effort, his sacrifice. _Her medical bills _were devouring almost 30% of his paycheque. And while Frances externalized throwing out blame and venom like fistfuls of candy from a parade float, her son internalized. And every interaction with her this way, eroded his self worth.

He stood rigid and tight, waiting, like in the airport, on another terrazzo floor. Waiting again for an imbalanced parent. He felt like a bird-shit covered statue in the park. He was sick and tired of the shit, but he was powerless to move. He was, even fully grown, Frances Goren's inanimate creation. Always waiting for her to wipe the hanks of feces away. Waiting for a sign that she remembered conceiving him, planning him, the time and the effort, the chiseling and sanding. And while he waited he thought, _**she wants to meet Alex, Alex wants to meet her, let them meet you idiot. **_

Bobby moved now. As he was wont to do. He rubbed a thick pale hand over his face, gripping and pulling at the softness of his cheeks, at his chin, massaging the underside of his neck and jowls (in reality still unjowled, but breaking speed barriers toward jowled). Both women meant so much to him. Both women had a silver vein of similarity running through them. Pure metal. Both women could _control_ him through force, manipulation, or omission. But it would be painfully hard to live without either of them.

"In my day a son would _never_ talk to his mother that way." Frances stood there serenely, a matriarch from her crown to her soles.

"I bet your mom was a flower, shy and sweet." He teased, trying to get her to smile. And a ghost of a memory did twitch her mouth.

Their relationship wasn't always antagonistic, in fact they were fast friends. They could talk for hours about literature and world events and music. She was very musical. She could sing, show tunes mostly, some classical, a little pop circa 1950 nothing current. But something happened when the conversation turned personal, when she wanted to know about his life, or Frank, or Jude. Hackles rose, he shut down. There was too much pain to trust. He'd been too inadequate to her, and she'd been too inadequate to him. He didn't want to talk to her about anything real, only the illusory pleasures of the past and art and culture.

Frances was not dull. That was a myth about the mentally ill, that they were space cadets, or foolish, or emotionally wrung out. Most of that was a byproduct of the medicine used to treat the infirmity. What schizophrenia was, was not a series of absurd personalities warring against the whole. It was a disconnection, it was an occasional schism between a single mind and the rest of the world.

And it was arguable, that that schism allowed for greater amounts of lucidity in Frances, not less. In life it is only the contrast that brings clarity. It is through the love we know hate, the joy we grasp sadness, and through obfuscation that we come to greater precision. Frances Goren was very cognizant of who she was. She knew about her departures from reality. She knew about her bitchiness when she returned. She had no illusions about her mettle. She was a hard woman. She didn't want to be. But she was. She hadn't always been that way. She had once been soft. She'd been raised in love, with art and appreciation. She had enjoyed books especially the classics, Greek mythology and literature. Homer's the Odyssey and the Iliad. She had revelled in the philosophers. And in the middle English classics, in short the archetypes of modern western society. She'd always lived with books. Even when for extra money, she'd worn a pink peplum jacket, a pencil skirt, and a matching pillbox hat - an Avon lady. She'd once been a prize for the boys, and a model of grace and gentility for the girls - a cotillion coordinator. But through it all she'd remained a student, an autodidact. She had learned but never been _a victim_ of learning. She'd always been smart and pretty and stylish and smooth, a killer package. It wasn't until she'd had Frankie that she realized she could be a librarian without a library sciences degree. Back then they'd hired her for peanuts, and she gladly taken the position to get out of the house, and into such a calm, expansive environment. Her boys had never known her as anything other than a librarian.

Now, she looked at her son and sighed. He was enormous to her eyes. Twice as wide as her, almost twice as tall. He always had on a pressed suit. He had a handsome face. She could barely believe she'd pushed that gargantuan lump out of her body. But here he was, a man. She knew he loved her, she only wished she could love him back.

"My mother was what they called a dame." She responded. "Gorgeous woman. A homemaker, innocent, even when she was old. You missed somethin' special not knowing her."

"Tell me." Bobby said with warm inquisitive brown eyes, and folded those long lumberjack limbs into a plastic chair beside her. "Tell me about Nana."

His submission hit just the right note with her. He made himself small, manageable. He looked up with respect. He inquired like a child, and in doing so he redistributed the balance of power.

Frances took the seat beside him. Looking at him so close up that she regretted her previous thought. _**No it wasn't right.**_ She loved him. He was her boy. He was. He really was her boy. She touched his face for a fleeting moment, and didn't imagine that he leaned into it. She just wished she could find that spot of _pure_ love. The one that glowed hot white without any darkness creeping in at the edges. That was the problem with him. And her. The darkness at the edges. He reminded her of someone. That was it. She was always fighting off a memory of someone around Robert. Someone mean, someone that had hurt her. It was _nothing_ about her boy. She wouldn't of had him if she hadn't understood his intrinsic innocence. Her discomfort had nothing to do with his physical presence. There was no reminder in his face. His mug? That was her dad all over (Al - not Albert - Albrecht), a German immigrant he had been big, prone to having a round face, and dark, almost black hair, almost black eyes. And it wasn't that shuffle Bobby liked to do, that was her brother all over, her dead brother Carlo, he had always had an itch, he had never stood still. And it wasn't Bobby's smarts either (though his father had been cunning) in her son's intelligence she saw herself, only her. No, Frances knew her discomfort had something to do with his essence. Trapped in his cells, was the shadow of her secrets.

"Nana was a blonde. Can you believe it? A girl from Italy! But blonde, blonde like Marilyn Monroe. And all natural, not a touch of peroxide on that head _na-tur-al." _

And so she began.

* * *

"She's going to be a shark." Eames said.

"Probably." He murmured.

"And I think a shark at the NOMU calls for a hick on the force."

Goren smiled secretly. Eames was musing. Driving and musing. About this case, about what awaited them at their destination, the Nomadic Museum in Chelsea. Frank Adair was having a fundraiser tomorrow night. A grand event. There they would find Janice Steiner, his Media Advisor. And Alex was right, the woman would be a shark. This wasn't some local pond they were swimming in - running their toes over soft pebbles and tunnelling into warm mud. This was the depths of the ocean. This was the churning undertow.

Bobby hadn't met Janice Steiner, but he'd Googled her. She was on the up. He'd assembled her CV from search engine results. With each subsequent job, her name had gained greater prominence. She'd worked with a couple of Mayoral candidates in Suffolk and Queens County respectively. Then she'd worked for Hunter Public Relations, on a team, spin doctoring the bad behaviour of New York business elites. Then her firm had been contracted by the NYPD Detective Bureau after a spate of racial shootings. But her street cred fossilized when she worked for the Counterterrorism Unit after 9/11. She'd positioned herself as the face of media relations during a very fraught time. Steiner was a cleaner fish, darting in and out of the dangerously sharp teeth, gobbling up all the leftover crud from immoral meals. Then three years ago she'd struck out on her own and started a firm. Fast forward to today, and she finally had a client who was going _to be _someone. Adair was her biggest catch so far. An aspiring governor. No doubt _she_ was the one that had put that bug in his ear. Reading about her, Goren could almost _feel_ her appetite. It created an uncomfortable tension between his shoulder blades. He had an inkling that she wanted to go all the way with Frank. One fine day she would be eating toast points and caviar on the silver platters of the Governor's Mansion. Last week Janice Steiner had scored Frank Adair a prime time interview on CNN. She had made him national news, while sitting angelically in the wings. Goren knew her type, she wasn't muzak, she was the cantor.

As for the wife, Marie Adair, Deakins was their only window into her personality. And it was too foggy with affection for objectivity. They'd gleaned that Marie wasn't the ambitious sort. A hausfrau and a doting mom, even now with teenaged children. Holding a recent photo of her, and with only a few points of relativity, Goren extrapolated her type, profiling her with bold broad strokes of speculation. Marie Adair had likely been pretty and agreeable in her youth. From a decent family, not rich, but upwardly mobile. She would have mellowed with age but kept her figure. Even now she was better looking then average. Marie Adair would be appropriately grateful for her life, but mildly chagrined that her epitaph would read 'Frank's plus one'. And that was the crux of her. Unworthiness. The wives of powerful men usually had an inferiority complex. And what did all unworthy people do? They doubled down on the skills they could offer, in a bid to be useful. Bobby suspected Marie Adair toiled in some dimension of domestic oblivion, ever aware that she'd made (as Jane Austen put it) an advantageous match. _**So, if the wife isn't pushing for status, and if Frank Adair is governed by his penis...**_ Goren thought as the three triangular dots of mathematical syllogism floated in his mind's eye, _**there is some illegitimate power behind the throne. Janice Steiner is in this up to her neck. **_

He looked at Alex. And resumed their conversation "So you're going to…"

"See where acting a little starstruck gets me." She said "You?"

"Play it straight."

"Boring."

"I know. But I don't think she's going to suffer fools."

"But isn't it fun to be a fool anyway?" Her eyes twinkled.

"Hmmm…" He'd enjoyed a good ruse in his day but not today. Today he was feeling, tired.

His tone piqued something in her, and Alex looked at him as fully as she could. She zeroed in on his thoughts. "Did you sleep?" Her tone was bitingly direct, but her face was worried.

"Some."

"Uh oh, monosyllabic."

He looked up from his binder without raising his head, his eyeballs strained at the sockets. "No, I'm okay." And in a flash he realized that Alex was his Marie. She never failed to be concerned. She troubled herself with his sleep patterns, his food intake, his dry cleaning, even when he didn't deserve it. She was the one with all the schedules in her head. She was the one always moving them along to that inaudible beat. For better or worse, she was one the that had put that beat in his skull. And over the years had turned him from flighty to… less flighty. Not a startling transformation, but it was more then the 39 years before her influence had managed. Alex was a working woman but she was fierce about family. She spent every 'leisure' moment with Jude. She had made her father's problems her own. She pep talked her sister in law. _She cut her brother's hair!_ He knew now, surer than anything, that Alex would slow the entire day to a crawl to accommodate his bleariness. Either that, or encourage a catnap in some strip mall parking lot.

She was still glancing worriedly at him.

"I'm fine." He assured her. And in a moment of artistic whimsy, he gave her something grand and diverting to show her he was okay. He cleared his throat dramatically. "Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse steals trash. 'Tis something, nothing: 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands. But he that filches from me my good name. Robs me of that which not enriches him. And makes me poor indeed."

"What's all that?" She asked, tickled. Because he was ridiculous. And because he was still Bobby.

"A profile of Adair." He was all smiles, most of them inside.

"Pretty poetic profile." She alliterated.

"I bet you didn't know that William Shakespeare was winking down on this one."

"No I didn't. Being with you is _always_ an education." And then, exactly as he'd planned, she thought, _**he's okay, he's going to be okay. **_

She drove them along the industrial Hudson and asked about the passage he'd recited. He described characteristics of Iago. A deceitful man whose entire worth was wrapped up in his name and his reputation and his evil aspirations. "I think that's Frank in a nutshell, don't you?" He asked.

"Entirely." Sometimes she was starstruck by his singularity.

Alex nipped out of traffic and double parked in front of the museum.

"Let's do this." He said like an action hero cliche.

"_Let's do this_?" She laughed. "You nerd." And just like that he was normal again.

* * *

The Nomadic Museum was unique. It was a temporary installation. The building _and_ its contents were works of art, and both would be taken down soon. It's shell was made of retired shipping containers, staggered like bricks. Inside, some of the metal façades of those boxes were revealed like rusting masterpieces, stacked and logoed between sheets of fibreglass. They soared 70 feet into the air where they butted up against a paper tube roof. The whole thing was supported (and gentrified) by a runway of, up lit, columns. And it was all of this grandeur, that hailed _her_ path. A woman, who was the very definition of a fearsome creature. She was dressed in black from her mock turtleneck, to her tailored jacket, to her cashmere slacks. And her voice - Janice Steiner's voice - echoed in the great hall like an overlord.

"Imbeciles! You put the podium down here when you have the entire museum to play with!" She ripped up a piece of paper viciously, and tossed it at a subordinate. Then clomped away angrily, leaving her staff befuddled. She was something to behold. Goren and Eames watched her approach and it was like being on the kill path of a great white. "Start over!" She bellowed. "Liana make notes!" Then her two flat glassy eyes pinned the detectives. "I don't usually talk to the police about my clients."

Alex tried her aw-shucks routine."Your client happens to be a hero to us Ms. Steiner he even remembered what precinct my dad worked." But the impact was lost as they hustled behind the media advisor. Both of them were slack jawed and panting, their words stolen by her breakneck indifference to their agenda.

"Oh how sweet." Steiner patronized.

"I'm surprised you wouldn't talk to us, given his history with this missing woman, it could get sticky for Frank." Alex upgraded to threats.

"Nothing sticks to Frank Adair he's a natural born leader."

"That's what this event that you're planning is all about, all this animal energy, leopards and elephants." Goren sprinted ahead of her. Prepared to make his body an obstacle. "That's a lynx isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know I'm not a cat person." But she stopped as smoothly as one.

"It is. It's the Caracal." He continued. "All these images of strength, compassion this would be a great place for Frank to announce his run for governor."

"The public craves what Frank has to offer." She spoke in smooth soundbites.

"Last Friday he did a news show, we need his whereabouts later on." Eames was all business now.

"Frank was with me. We brought a tape back to my office to review it."

"Hmm, that's funny, he told his wife he had dinner at Tony Iolo's."

"She misunderstood. We brought dinner in from Tony Iolo's. We had a lot of work to do."

From behind them, an anonymous assistant answered a ringing phone. "This is Carla. Hold please." She extended the phone to Steiner. "I have Miss Reagan." Goren had never literally deflected a phone call. He took great pleasure in the glancing blow his body gave her hand. Some people didn't respect anything but the laws of physics.

"I envy Frank having you by his side," Goren poked "smoothing out all the rough edges, the two of you make a great power couple." Her face got tight, but tightness wasn't evidence.

"He already has a wife." She turned, swished her tail and swam away, leaving them in her wake.

"Two stories about Friday, his is a total lie." Eames said.

"Hers has just enough truth in it to make it bulletproof. That's the sign of a good liar, you know, a good manipulator."

"Liana!" Steiner bellowed at her assistant. "Dammit my water."

Goren observed the harried assistant as she struggled to unclasp her portfolio, trying desperately to free the great woman's beverage, trying desperately to quench an unquenchable thirst. "She calls you Liana." He made a face.

"I know. I'm Carla. Liana was let go two weeks ago. Ms. Steiner has _a lot_ of turnover."

"Liana." Goren muttered the name of their next lead.

"Hell has no fury like an assistant scorned." Alex said. As they walked she was already on the phone, getting the contact information for Liana Kazon. And _loving_ the energy of this case. The rush, the thrust. This was the elegance of the mystery. As detectives was their job to follow a trail, but only occasionally was it a true chain reaction, where each subsequent explosion came from the chemistry of two human beings.

As they breached the building and moved into the cool spring air, Alex replayed that encounter in her head. She found that part of her was envious of women like Janice Steiner. They seemed to transcend gender boundaries with their confidence. Janice Steiner was nobody's bitch. She could make men and women alike, quake in her presence. She was free range, self-promoting, self-indulgence. Only a handful of women could ever achieve that level of disconnection from gender roles. Alex had met a lot of them, but mostly on the job. For some reason when she was a civilian, out running errands and wearing the moniker 'mom or girlfriend' she met other moms and girlfriends. Women scurrying around, trying to be and have it all. But when she was on a case, the sociopathic personalities revealed themselves everywhere. Alex found (and she was aware of the stinking irony of this) that murderesses, and those women that plotted and manipulated in service of murder, were the most aspirational feminist examples of all.

* * *

"What do you think? Do we want Heineken or Bud?"

Bobby dangled the green and silver cans over his son's head like they were ornaments on a Christmas tree. They made a dull clank. The baby strained for the shiny, frosty things. And he thought _**habituating my one-year-old to beer probably isn't my finest moment**_. And, for that matter, neither was the sip he'd given Jude last week. It was those eyes. How was he supposed to say no to the biggest, clearest pair brown eyes ever set in a human face? Or those chubby little hands, they'd kept kneading at the folds of his pants like a tabby cat. So, while whispering, "don't tell your mother," he'd leaned over and tilted the bottle to his child's lips. _And oh_, the look of utter disgust Jude had given him. And then a waterfall of minging, amber drool had poured down his little chin and onto his shirt. It was kind of a relief. _**Phew. He hates it. **_Unfortunately the beer had done the parenting, not him.

"Good choice Juju." Bobby held up the victorious Budweiser. "You're a true American." And the boy said something that sounded suspiciously like 'rican.' Jude's sounds were very sophisticated now.

Bobby moved on, pushing the mini-cart through the local market. Through pyramids of produce, and past the arctic row of refrigerator units. And all the while felt obscenely proud of his progeny. Jude's long legs were dangling through the two metal holes in front. _**He can sit in a shopping cart! **_The sight was a marvel to a father who rarely did groceries. And the kid was gorgeous, in his humble opinion. So city cool, in his royal blue Oshkosh hoodie, carpenter jeans and baby kicks. Bobby on the other hand, was the only one in this place at 8pm wearing a suit. He hadn't been home yet. And while he was used to being overdressed, he was also deeply resentful. There was a trend he'd once read about in a fashion magazine. Women were tattooing their faces with make up, eyeliner mostly. It got him thinking, he should bite the bullet and have this suit tattooed on. It was a perfect solution, until he stumbled at the thought of his scrotum. Ouch.

He ruffled Jude's hair all thick and chestnut, and pushed them past the rows upon rows of beverages, bottled wines, and club liquors. "Should we get some food?" He asked with a silly intonation, "not every lunch can be a liquid lunch." He smiled, and Jude smiled too, a secret society of boys.

He pulled out his phone and reread a message from Alex. He found a grocery list and very detailed instructions about picking Jude up on Staten Island. Including a reminder that the ferry left every 15 minutes during rush hour - as if he never been to Staten Island before. And there was a notation that said: JUDE NEEDS TO EAT. Just like that, all in caps. "For god's sake." He muttered. The woman thought he was an imbecile. And that got him thinking about the neurotic brain of a mother. What it would look like lying in a jar of formaldehyde. Would it be altered for all the anxiety? In his mind he saw a hunk of grey matter shaped like Gaia.

"Well isn't this a picture." A sweet feminine voice appraised them from behind. "He's beautiful Bobby."

And the way every hair raised. The way his hands went to his son and his gun (the latter missing). The way his heart skipped. He didn't even need to turn around. "You're back."

"I always come back to the big apple." Came the lilting reply.

Bobby established the boundaries immediately. Lifting his soft, warm baby and securing him high and away. Then he grabbed the cart and put the length of it between him and the blonde woman. It was a surrealist fantasy worthy of Warhol, standing there with a wall of Campbell's Soup cans at their backs, with a weaponized shopping cart aimed at a bombshell. Jude had gone still with interest, gazing at the stranger who held his attention by waving. "What are you doing here?" Bobby asked coldly.

"Coincidence?" Nicole Wallace wore death well. For her, eternal rest was a trip to the salon with a boutique chaser. Her hair seemed to throw off golden rays. Her eyes popped. Her lips were shiny and nude and they perfectly matched her silk scarf, an accessory that bubbled up from the neck, of a double breasted wool coat in a luminous shade of ecru. Eight parallel gold buttons winked cheekily at him. _**This is how you lure the children, with candy. This is how she finds her men, with beauty.**_

Aloud he scoffed. "Of all the stores, in all the cities, in all the world…" He wasn't feeling playful, but Bogie fit.

"Finding you was easier then taking the _bin to the curb_. I..."

He held up a single 'talk to the hand.' "We can't do this Nicole."

"This is how you treat a friend?" She rested her nude, filed, fingernails on the lip of the cart.

"A friend? We aren't friends. You _murder_ people and I hunt you." He saw a woman reaching for a package of pasta stiffen and quickly roll on.

"Don't be simple. The world isn't so black and white."

"_Stay away_ from my child Nicole."

She tsk tsk'd waggling one slender finger. "You are such a good little secret keeper. Letting me go on about people like us. And all the while…"

Bobby remembered that exchange...

_**"People like you and me just aren't fated to have children." **_

_**"Yeah well don't count me out yet." **_

"People like us? We aren't even the same species." He glared. "You eat babies for breakfast."

"I would _never_ hurt a child." She insisted. "And really Bobby, if you and that mouse can do it, anyone can."

He sighed. "I'm leaving, I can't listen to this." He was at a disadvantage, wrestling for supremacy against both his kin and his foe. Jude was squirming, bucking his little abdomen into his father's chest. He didn't want to be held, he wanted to climb down onto a half unpacked skid of beefaroni. "_Don't follow me." _

It was strange to turn his back on a criminal. To turn tail and run. To not engage her, to not cuff her, or bring her in. He might have, with two free hands. But today preservation compelled retreat. Nicole's last sighting and her status were ambiguous: 'believed dead' was written in her file. And while she was implicated in Ella Miyazaki's death, that very death had come during a failed sting. _**I'm not ignoring the commission of a crime **_he soothed himself. But he _was_ leaving a rabid animal on the streets. Maybe all of these considerations played on his face, because she taunted,

"Do you want to take me in?" And bared her white wrists.

His look was stony. "Next time. I'm off duty."

"Such fair-weather devotion." She smiled sweetly. "I remember a time when valour wasn't optional."

And with those words Bobby succumb fully to tiredness. He'd been tired this morning. He'd been tired at lunch. He'd been tired on the ferry. This was a bridge too far. He felt heavy, his kid was heavy, the weight of strategy was heavy. It was all he could do not to let his knees buckle in surrender, and lapse into a coma in aisle 5. He was in no state of mind to deal with Nicole Wallace. Once again she'd got him good.

"What would you know about valour?" He turned and walked away. What he didn't realize was that that act in itself, was a victory. That he was fed up with her. That he now had all the things she craved. That he might beat her in their twisted race to normalcy - with his 9 to 5, and his fiancé and his apartment and groceries and _baby_. _A baby_. _He_ had someone to love him with unconditional eyes. While she had burned her own house down. She envied him. _She hated him._

"How's your mother?" Nicole called wildly after him. He froze. Of all the people to mention. It was evidence in itself that he was being stalked. She knew he'd canceled a trip to Carmel Ridge today. "I think it's a shame that a child can _ruin_ his mother's life, and casually beg off visiting her as a man." Nicole's words grated his flesh.

"I see her all the time." His defensiveness was a reflex. He walked on but she had cut him to the quick.

"But it's never enough is it?" She heckled his retreating form. "You murdered her spirit!"

* * *

This was some home office. It was befitting of a man like Frank Adair, one who espoused traditional values, and lived with a wife and two kids. A millionaire's family, a boy and girl. He had a mini-mansion in Salem, New York. A country home in the Adirondacks. A thriving political career. And a deep reverence for the nuclear family. On the surface, everything about this life was utter perfection.

The surface is _always_ an illusion.

Goren and Eames and Deakins moved around the swaths of tartan drapery. Pulling out files, both real and virtual. Perching on mahogany here, leaning on leather there. Speculating openly in front of Marie Adair. She was the quintessential good wife. The last one to know about everything, the first to tow the line. Her naïveté was a meal for these seasoned profilers. And they gobbled down her insights into Janice Steiner. Bobby's profile of both women was completely on point. As a game, he'd guessed the wife's outfit before leaving home today. But for some reason his near clairvoyant accuracy was no longer a thrill for him.

When the room was clear of civilians, Goren turned to Deakins and asked,

"He ever talk to you about his childhood?"

"He never brought it up." Their captain's face was stoic. It had been this entire case. It was the toll of suspecting a friend.

"Janice was interested, maybe it didn't stop with the photo albums."

* * *

Goren's musing sent them on a journey, a train trip between New York City and Baltimore where Frank Adair was raised. At least this time 1PP comped them a ride on the Acela. It was the better way to travel along the Northeast Corridor. It was the better way to sleep, if Alex had anything to say about it.

"You've been restless lately, close your eyes." She said looking at him across the way. They were sitting in a quad seat, that only the two of them occupied, with his portfolio and her coat riding shotgun, respectively. The train rocked gently back-and-forth. She hammered her suggestion home. "You don't get more of a rock-a-bye baby then this during a work day. _Sleep_."

He pursed his lips, a little annoyed with her mothering. He liked being care of. What he didn't like was the rift that formed when he bucked her coddling. "Don't get mad at me if I choose to read."

"I won't get mad at you." Her face twisted. "I'm just saying, with all of wandering that's been going on at night, maybe want to split your time between _sleeping_ and reading."

Bobby didn't want to tell her that on top of the insomnia, he was worried about Nicole Wallace, "I know, I know. We'll see how it goes okay?"

"Suit yourself." She said shortly and pulled out a glossy magazine.

2 1/2 hours later they met the stout, serious, Detective Rachlif in the Cold Case room, deep in the basement of the BPD. He was the stereotypical gumshoe, with a crisp white shirt, broad city accent, and stories, so many stories. He rested his ample posterior against a metal desk and started spinning a gruesome tale of a young Frank Adair. "Nine-year-old Frankie comes home from school and finds his mother beaten to a pulp with a hammer."

"Who did it the old man?" Eames asked.

"No he was alibied in Chicago."

"The suspects, all boyfriends?" Bobby asked.

"If you want. Mostly junkies and dope dealers. Mrs. Adair's social circle. This is her sad story." The detective handed Eames a thick file. "A couple of dozen dope beefs, and everything else she had to do to support her habit." Eames paged through mugshot after mugshot. Frank Adair's mother was a pretty woman, but pretty didn't count for much if you didn't have any dignity or self control. "That's the world her son grew up in."

"A lot of material here. You put this together since we called yesterday?" Eames asked.

"We got a request five years ago from the commissioner's office to reopen the case, as a courtesy to Mr. Adair."

"How about the last couple of months?" Asked Bobby poking around for evidence of Janice Steiner. "Anyone try to get this information maybe someone who worked with Frank Adair?"

"As a matter fact someone did." He turned and fished out a bill of lading. The storage facilities of police departments worked a lot like commercial warehouses. The detectives looked at the sheet, as they suspected the request had come from Frank Adair's access code, an alphanumeric containing his defunct badge number.

"Copy it all. We need duplicates of everything." Eames said.

It took about two hours all in, and then they found themselves in the lounge of Baltimore's Penn Station waiting for the Acela again.

"That was a long trip to see original documents." Goren said conversationally, every trip was a long trip with this job. He uncurled his long legs, stretching them well out into the aisle.

"That was fucked up." Eames surprised him with her intensity.

"Adair's childhood? It wasn't fun, but it explains a lot."

"Damn right it explains a lot. He's been walking around with a picture of his mother's crushed skull in his head. And I'm the first person to say suck it up buttercup... but I don't know..."

"Yeah, he drew a rough hand."

"But he made good. Why snap now?"

"He was triggered." Bobby said. "It all lay dormant and then something or someone like Janice Steiner comes along, and he's right back to where he was as a child. Helpless."

"Still I don't get it. He was a cop. He probably saw a million more bashed heads working on the force. So much has happened between then and now."

Goren looked down at his shoes. They were shiny. He'd polished them this morning. He watched the light play off them and spoke with eerie resonance. "He probably decided to be a cop because of what he saw as a child. Every decision after was based on that moment."

Alex still looked skeptical. Her own virtually perfect childhood hadn't prepared her to understand the scope of this drama. "Still, he was the Chief of D's. Are you telling me that didn't prepare him for the likes of Janice Steiner? And what about all the screwing around? The infidelity. Is he going to blame everything on his mommy?"

"It's PTSD _and_ he's an asshole." That made her smile. "His time on the force didn't lessen the impact of what happened when he was a kid, seeing it everyday didn't make it common. It was cumulative. It piled on."

"So why was Steiner the trigger, why not something else?"

"Intention." Bobby shrugged.

"What do you mean?"

"Everything else was just a coincidence, or a days work, but she found out about his weakness and intentionally exploited it. Who knows what kind of landmines she scattered through his life."

Alex made a face. "And yet he pulled her in closer. He started sleeping with her. He made her the _most important person_ in his career. _Why would he do that_?"

"I don't know." Bobby slouched back and gave in to a rare moment of genuine confusion. Why did people destroy themselves? "I don't know."

* * *

"_**A crisis. Manipulators they love a crisis that's where they do their best work." **_

"I'm going to make some chamomile tea or something." He murmured. It was so dark in their bedroom that he felt like he had ink in his eyes.

"No stay here." Alex rolled over groggily. She'd been in the deepest sweetest sleep. The kind of sleep that immediately tried to call you back. She took a giant nocturnal breath and slapped her dry lips together as though chewing, trying to find the saliva to speak again. Bobby always did this, he woke up and instead of giving sleep a chance, he torpedoed the whole night by going walkabout in the living room, or bathing in the bright light of the kitchen.

"I don't want to bother you."

_**That ship has sailed **_she thought, snarky even when ripped from REM. "Stay." She urged with heavy vocal fry.

He did, but she could feel his feet twitching back-and-forth under the duvet. He was itching to leave, itching to pace in the dark and she was holding him back. Bobby stared at his approximation of the ceiling. The room was so black he couldn't take anything for granted.

"What can I do for you?" She asked with concern.

Her voice sounded so small and drowsy and sweet to his ear. "Nothing. Go back to sleep. I wish I'd kept my mouth shut."

She took another long breath, then rolled to her side, her body pressed along his bulk. She let one hand rest on his fuzzy chest, stroking back-and-forth across the width. From one nipple to the other, pausing along the fault line of his breastbone. "I wish I could do something for you. I hate it when you suffer."

And it was arousing, her care aroused him. Mostly because her daylight persona was so diametrically opposed to _this woman_. Take for example, the Alex on the train, she had destructively flirted with nagging. And nagging was the truest cock block of all. But this Alex was someone completely different. She yearned to be useful to him. This Alex wanted nothing more then to see him thrive. He reached out a large hand and ran it down her grand Meridian, the line that created the symmetry of her body. Her spinal column, the small of her back, the crack of her bum, to the sandwich of her thighs. She shivered.

"Cold?"

"No." Her voice was husky. Her nipples peaked against his rib cage. It didn't matter how long they'd been together, or how many petty disagreements had marked that time, he could always make her shiver.

"Is it because I'm touching you? Is it because you like the way I'm touching you?" His voice rumbled.

"Yes."

He ran that hand slowly down her three more times. And she shifted against him. He was a furnace. Even through her tattered NY Jets T-shirt he burned her. In the dark there were none of their visual signals. His body was all contrasting textures: tense muscle, hard bone, soft fat, coarse hair. She lifted the edge of her shirt to feel all of it against her belly. And then the sleep was gone for both of them.

Bobby reached low and pulled one of her thighs over both of his, parting her. He felt the damp press of her panties against his leg. He pulled her in harder. Rubbing her cloaked clitoris against him. He knew how she liked it, slow. She liked lots of contact. She liked to give sensation room to grow. When they were in bed, it wasn't enough that she _was_ small, she liked to be made to _feel_ small. Small and precious.

"Do you like that?" He asked, on barely a breath.

"Uh mmm." Vague was all she could manage. It was building more quickly then she thought it would. She was going dry hump his thigh to orgasm. Alex couldn't stop her hips from rocking, her breath from growing choppy and shallow. His big hand splayed across her backside. Spanning both satin covered lumps.

"More pressure?" He whispered.

And her "yes." had an element of squeak. He flattened his hand more heavily on the cushion of her rear. He smelled the odour of her sex. He heard the catch in her throat, the one that always came before she did. He knew her eyes were clenched. He felt her tense and tremble.

He was no saint. Especially lying there on his back with his dick straining thick and heavy across stomach. No. No one would ever eulogize Robert Goren's selflessness. She was still twitching when he pushed her onto her back. And settled heavily between her legs. He raised her T-shirt roughly and gripped her nipple with his mouth. Then slid his lips over and gripped the other, drawing deeply on the contoured pebble and soft tissue like a child in search of milk. Her breasts were not small. Her breasts complemented her body perfectly by being just a shade too big for it. He loved her breasts.

His hand tore down her filmy scrap of underwear, and the thick cotton of his own. He prodded at her a few times, leaving his wet pre-cum signature, seeking entry. And then he found it on a groan, sinking inside balls deep. He managed to hook a big toe on his briefs, and kick them free. Being inside her was a gorgeous sensation every time. She was the tightest woman he'd ever been with. She clamped him like a hot, wet, velvet fist. The natural curve of her passage had its way with him. Gripping him and tilting him to the side. It was secret quirk of Alex, one no other man would ever know. One _she_ didn't even know. He felt as if he'd read the double helix of her DNA. He'd never told her about it. But today, as he rolled his hips, he hissed it against the shell of her ear. The quivering jelly tip of his tongue drew wet symbols of love, as he did. She liked it. All of it. He could tell. Because she wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms around the barrel of his chest, and moaned to the rhythm of his work.

Afterward he weighed on her like a side of beef, inert and sticky. But with signs of life, a racing pulse and triathlete's heaving. And she cradled him like an infant. And he saw (with his eyes closed) how much she loved him. She had so much experience loving. _She wasn't nagging_ she was loving. From beyond his breath he heard her beg,

"Now sleep. _Please_ sleep."

Just before he did.

_**He was standing in his house in Canarsie. But little things were different. The living room seemed longer from end to end, and the couch was blue, instead of bear brown with a single beige racing stripe. He was lucid dreaming. He knew that immediately. And what was about to happen had occurred at 10 in the evening, but this felt more like 10 in the morning.**_

_**Two people entered from the hallway. It was Frank and his mom. Frank looked so young. In a black AC/DC T-shirt, and jeans that were discoloured and frayed at the knee. His hair was longer too, a sign of the times. It brushed his shoulders, and was almost flaxen from a drugstore dye job. He had a dazed look in his eye. **_

"_**Get away from me!" He yelled at his mother. She was chasing after him. Yapping at him like a Chihuahua. It was all she could do, this boy in a man sized body had stolen all of her power. **_

"_**You think you can talk to me that way in my house!" His mom was thin, wiry and already callused. "Get to your room!"**_

_**Frank turned and laughed in her face. "I'm 18 woman! Fuck off."**_

"_**What a filthy mouth." Her voice cracked. "Why do you stay here? If that's what you think of us. You rude ungrateful… get out of my house!"**_

"_**I am." He said. "But I'm taking all of my shit with me." And like a deranged thief he started making a pile of mismatched things, things that didn't belong to him. Bobby saw himself then. Or rather he felt himself cowering against the mouth of the hallway, trying to be invisible. He was a giant 15 year old ghost. His height was a misdirect. He had never been a fighter. Frank (who was smaller) had beat him up everyday. **_

"_**If you think you're takin' any of that, you must be more stoned then usual!" His mother screeched. And Bobby looked at the stuff in question. He saw his own baseball cards, some knick knacks, a radio, a pile of LPs. Frank's guitar and amp already stood by the door. He wasn't taking any food, or blankets, or clothes, it was all stuff he could sell. Sell for drugs.**_

_**Frank plowed into their mother knocking her back a step. "Watch me you crazy bitch."**_

"_**Who are you calling crazy?" She ran half-mad past Bobby and down the hall and reemerged with a baseball bat, "If you try and take that stuff I'll knock your head clean off. My son!" Tears poured down her cheeks now. "My son? Some degenerate drug addict. Walking around here half stoned. I can't even find a goddamn knife or spoon in the drawer that isn't burnt to hell! No more, you hear me? No more!"**_

"_**Who's going to stop me." He shouted.**_

"_**Bobby get over here!" She called him out, but he didn't move. He was a coward.**_

_**Frank laughed, because Frank wasn't anyone they knew anymore. He was mean and petty and vicious. "That little turd?" Then he started putting the stuff into a makeshift bindle bag, tying the ends of a throw around it. And the mother charged at her son. And she hit him with that bat. But only once. He disarmed her easily. And then he started screaming like an animal. And even petrified Bobby understood it. It was all the pent up rage at the state of their lives. His soul screamed that way too. And Bobby started to shake uncontrollably because someone was going to die today. And Frank swung that bat knocking the crap out of things. The sofa only threw up a plume of dust, but the lamp broke, the table pitched over and the drywall by the door crumpled like paper, a stud showing through. Bobby stayed pinned in place, breathing fast, in riveted catatonia.**_

_**When his mother hit Frank again with her fist he grabbed her, and she screeched like she was gasping for air. And in that moment Bobby saw the one person who cared for him in peril. He crawled on all fours around the corner and into her bedroom and grabbed the phone. He called 911. **_

_**Adult Bobby watched the police arrive, it took 5 minutes. Their house was only footsteps from the 69th precinct. It was chaos. Frank was an uncooperative suspect. They grabbed him like a rag doll and he was pinned to his belly under the weight of 3 screaming uniforms. And in the midst of the maylay his mother had a mental break. Her screams still pierced his brain and her words were clear as day. "You pigs! You filthy government pigs! Let him go." Over and over and when she'd accused them of trying to steal... Well they'd packed her into a cruiser right behind Frank. And then it was quiet again. Only Bobby standing in the shambles of what had once been a home, a family. **_

"Hey sleepy head." Alex's soft voice brought him home. She was perched on the edge of the bed, gazing down at him. Her eyes were soft and happy. "You slept so long and I called Deakins and told him we be late. I didn't want to wake you." He could feel the joy radiating off her, as if a full night's sleep were a lottery win.

The dream was still high in his mind. He blinked around with strange eyes, almost expecting to be in Canarsie. He hadn't dreamt that dream in almost a decade. Nicole. Nicole was the trigger. Now his dirty past was following him again.

"Thank you for not waking me." He gave her wan smile. "What time is it?"

"9" She said triumphantly.

"Wow, that's a real knockout vagina you have there." She pinched him, smiled again and ducked out of the room. Bobby lay there on his back like a quadriplegic. This time seeing every pit and groove of the ceiling in the high light of morning. And for one inexplicable moment he wanted to cry. His face got hot, his eyes glossy. What that 15 year old version of him hadn't known, was that his phone call had broken their family forever. They were in the system. All of them. He had laid a finger against a snowball and created an avalanche. From the courts that had made him a temporary ward of the state, to the social workers and probation officers for Frank - along with mandatory rehabilitation that he would fight for the rest of his life. But the very worst was the involuntary commitment of his mother. Being labelled crazy had changed her fundamentally. After that day she'd never gone more than a two month stretch without landing back in some psychiatric facility.

Nicole was right, he had murdered his mother's spirit.

He got up slowly, walked to the bathroom, and turned on the shower.

* * *

Jimmy sat back in his desk and pressed a horrified palm to his mouth. He stared at the phone, it was sitting in it's cradle, but it may of well have been a spitting, hissing, serpent. The news he'd just received wasn't good. Within 24 hours of Frank Adair's arrest Carver had been reassigned, he wouldn't be the lead prosecutor on the case. A slew of administration at 1PP had been released from duty. And a key financial contributor to the Police Foundation had withdrawn their funding.

Suddenly everything felt so tight and irritating. _**Fuck bell's palsy.**_ He couldn't stand this eye patch, or this suit, or this office, or this precinct. He ripped the black scrap off and threw it across the room. With the patch missing, he felt his sagging flesh and unblinking eye. Frank Adair was spiralling. But his lowest moment hadn't been that tawdry bitch fight with Janice Steiner across a squad room desk. His lowest moment was this one. As he went down he was flailing wildly, grabbing everyone he could lay hands on - people he'd called _comrades, brothers in arms_ \- and dragging them down to hell with him.

It was sickening.

It was making Jimmy question his past, question his understanding of human nature. How had someone like that been a friend? Did he even deserve to helm squad like Major Case? He shouldn't be captaining these brilliant intuitive minds. He was a blind man.

One thing was for certain, it wasn't over.

And _no one_ who had touched this case was safe.

* * *

_Season 4 finis_


	44. Chapter 44

**GROW**

"We've got 9 buildings to search 10,000 people to interview. This guy better not be playing house with a girlfriend for the last 3 days." Detective Bristol let frustration pepper his words.

They were in Harlem standing in the shadow of some megalithic apartment buildings. Plain brown brick columns. Monuments of contemporary poverty. These buildings were government subsidized magnets for crime. Every cop here knew that. Every cop present had caught a call here. Most had cut their teeth on the dope dealers and petty criminals inside. In the locker rooms Taft was synonymous with many things. Vertical patrollers liked the acronym 'tall as fuck towers'. The DA's favoured, 'theft assault firearms trespass' and to everyone else they were 'the trashed houses'. Law enforcement were a pretty literal crowd.

"You know if he was working the night he disappeared?" Eames asked, already anticipating the answer. Information was seriously short.

Was it a crime scene? Possibly. Was there a crime? Possibly. Would they be expending a shitload of manpower and man-hours? Definitely. By her guess these unis could be here for another week and turn up zip. Which of course begged the question, what were Eames and Goren doing here? Alex ground her molars. Sometimes being a member of the municipal family of the City of New York, was like being a part of _any_ family, all duty, no perks.

"His boss isn't sure." Bristol replied weaving his way around the blue and white vehicles. A fleet of squad cars fanned out so thick, that it felt like the President was visiting. At last the detective stopped in front of a wide man, with dark hair and introduced Eames. "Mr. Martel," She assessed him quickly, and saw all the hallmarks of a mid-level bureaucrat.

"He didn't have an inspection scheduled but he did spot checks of past violators." Martel was flustered.

"He carried a gun?" Goren's disembodied voice floated over. All of him, save trouser covered calves and knees, were swallowed by a nondescript Chevy Classic. Eames watched him through the windshield. His nose was pressed to an envelope, against a translucent yellow blotch. _**Yuck.**_ "This piece of paper was in the glove box. There's a gun oil stain on it."

"Our inspectors are prohibited from carrying weapons." Martel said.

"If he was spot checking violators, he'd bring his citation pad with him?" Eames asked the obvious.

"It depends. Sometimes a verbal warning is sufficient. No doubt Larry ran into trouble while performing his duties." Martel was conjecture in a suit.

"No doubt." Eames repeated.

_**Lots of doubt actually.**_

Doubt about the character of the victim, about a crime bigger then grand theft auto, and doubt about everything else. They were starting a murder investigation on the loose soil of logical fallacy. Known facts: A) There was a stolen car B) This was the housing projects C) There was a missing Caucasian male.

Ergo foul play.

_**Ergo nothing.**_

There was nothing here. Except some classism, some racism and the whiff of pissed underpants. Boxer briefs, soaked with fear, and worn by two uniforms that'd trusted their guts and mobilized an army. It was hard being on the front line, hard making a call and accepting the fallout. There had better be a body, or they would never live it down.

Eames looked at Goren again. He was standing in the middle of the chaos, in his Columbo brown raincoat, minus the wrinkles (he was a military fuddy duddy, starch and iron all the way). His brow resembled a Shar-Pei's, his hands were locked behind his back, and his chin was tilted skyward. He was, she knew, ecstatic. He loved it when evidence didn't get in the way of investigating. He loved when the weight of a whodunit hung moist and low, like the sky before a downpour. He loved the art of concocting, before the facts created boundaries. Robert Goren was also conjecture in a suit.

"Whaddaya think?" She asked casually as they moved back to the car, leaving the 'crime scene' behind.

"Nothing."

"What?" She did a double take. He never thought nothing. It was _impossible_ for him to not have a dumpster full of unsubstantiated conclusions.

"Nothing about a crime." He mused, feeling oddly pleased that he was as in the dark as everyone else.

"_Okaaaaay_." Eames said, like potato skins loaded with skepticism.

"Larry Chapel is single. Sexually active. He has a taste for cheap street corner girls. He's in debt. He's on the take. He has a daughter or a niece, a tween, one that he spends a fair amount of time with. He hates his job. He hates the city. He dreams of escaping, somewhere warm. He's addicted to Chinese takeout. He could live on spring rolls. But only from one location, Ming Palace. I'm guessing, because of a deal with the owner to ignore code violations. He hates Thai, coconut allergy." Goren paused his verbal inventory to smirk. A man who craved a tropical lifestyle had a body that rejected coconuts. "And his favourite colour is purple. See? It's something, but nothing at all."

Eames paused in the street. As his facts pelted her like buckshot. And he trundled on oblivious. She looked up at the back of his head with narrowed eyes. Then kept walking, falling back into their rhythm.

"There's no narrative. No theme. He's just… mediocre."

They climbed into the SUV and buckled silently, drawing and clicking their nylon seat belts.

"How do you know his favourite colour is purple?" She couldn't resist asking, though she rarely questioned him. His record of success had long earned her unequivocal support.

"Colour psychology."

"What?" The leather steering wheel creaked with her annoyance. As she jerked the big black vehicle back and forth, executing a textbook three point turn, trying to hustle them away from that mess of speculation. Only to find herself partnered with it. Goren was too goddamn fanciful for her.

"The new age psychology of colour." He repeated.

"Bogus." She jabbed. "You're getting soft in your _old age_."

His lips tightened. He pulled up in his seat. He cast a superior look her way. Like an emperor, no, a scientist who refused to be swayed from his empirical data. "You don't think there's a connection between colour and mood?"

"Mood yes, personality no. It's like saying astrology and numerology are science. They're junk science."

Goren sat silent for a while considering that. Strictly speaking nothing he did in the field was scientific. He wasn't a rational actor. With people his goal was to agitate. With evidence he trusted both sensory and extrasensory perception. With knowledge he cherry picked from trivia in his head. And the rest of the time he played hunches like he was at a craps table in Vegas. Eames and the rest of the world imagined genius in a way that was antithetical to humanity. He was not a super computer, nor was he strictly logical.

"All science is junk science at some point." He asserted boldly. "You take a leap, of experience or intuition, then apply method to test your hypothesis."

Now Eames pursed her lips, because she knew that she was about to be lead down a merry path. Straight into a Goren style debate. One that had nothing to do with their vic, and a lot to do with the theoretical. And if she let it get started, it would go on _forever_. She would see books about it on his nightstand, she would find tabs open on their home PC, he would drop it into casual conversation for the next week. He was the box and she was Pandora.

And yet she continued, "Okay, tell me about your junk colour science."

"I can't cite sources." He made that clear. He knew what he knew. And only rarely where it had come from.

"I don't need you to cite sources." She wrinkled her nose. He was so weird.

"And colour is only one component." He added, again to be clear. He imagined his cognition as infinite nesting dolls. Broad thought, led to a more condensed thought, then even more condensed thought, then even more, until there was no where to go, until he felt the rightness of his conclusion.

"That's okay." She shrugged.

"Fine. He had a box of purple pens in the glove compartment..." He started.

Alex threw back her head and cackled. This was the mind she was in awe of? This was the depth of his insight? "Yeah and I'm wearing fuchsia underwear. So I must be a hooker." She snorted.

He rolled his head toward the glass and sighed. "He had a box of purple ballpoint pens that wrote with blue ink. Over 99% of mass marketed blue ink pens either have a blue plastic sheath, or a blue cap, so that people know they're blue. That, is Point of Purchase marketing 101. That indicated that Chapel either searched for, or special ordered his 'unicorn' box. Since the average consumer spends approximately 6 seconds searching for a preferred brand before settling for another, I concluded special effort. There are several indicators of interest. Effort is one of them."

She was silent so he went on.

"Colour theory _is_ scientific. It's also metaphysical and philosophical. But to follow my thinking you have to accept two premises, the first is not universally agreed on, but it is _my_ baseline. The theory is that colour is not intrinsic to any physical object being viewed. It is not a physical quality, it's perception. Of course scientifically speaking there are measures: light levels and cone cells." He waved a dismissive hand. "But that's peripheral to this case. The purple pens reminded me of the five major philosophical colour theories: projection, reductive thinking, primitivism, dispositional reasoning and subjectivism. It's that last theory that I used here. It says that colour is a feeling _caused_ in individuals by objects. Colour is a sensation like pain or pleasure. Unique to every individual, and based on life experience. In this case, for me subjectivism is the bridge between data/emotion - or - Larry owning purple pens/his relationship to the colour purple."

"Okay." She murmured.

"The second premise you have to accept is that Larry Chapel is on the take." Each assumption Goren made in the field was unsubstantiated. And yet each one of his assumptions _had_ to inform the next one, or it would be a case of paralysis by analysis.

"Uh Okay."

"Most people create their lives from pain. They are compelled to act, change and grow through pain. When see I their possessions and actions, I try to intuit the precise nature of the fear or discomfort or self-loathing that created them."

Alex's lips folded down in consideration. She did something similar when she profiled, but she'd never thought of it that way. Profiling wasn't even a course of study in the academy. They were taught to draw basic conclusions from physical evidence. They were discouraged from guessing.

"So I asked myself inside that car, why did Larry Chapel steal? Why did he intimidate others? Because of poverty, because of a feeling of insignificance. Then I added what I believe about subjective colour theory. Then I contrasted all that with what I know about the _new age_ personification of colour." He held up his phone to flashy website with a blurb on purple. It said '_Purple is bold. It means importance and wealth. It's traditionally worn by royalty. It is the colour of luxury, ambition, power.'_ "That's the anti-Larry. Don't you think?" Goren asked Eames. "His pain-body betrays his aspirations. That's how I know his favourite colour is purple."

Then he went silent. In the absence of his voice the car was a series of white noises, the whirring fan, tires on freshly poured asphalt, invisible springs contracting and releasing. And her head was _about to burst_.

"How do you know that Chapel didn't go to a store that had an overstock of purple pens? How do you know that he didn't just buy them because of opportunity?"

"I don't. But I do know that the pens in Chapel's glove compartment were the most sold brand in the world according to the Guinness Book of World Records 2005 Edition. I hypothesized that many non-purple pens of the same brand were available to him."

"How do you know that he didn't get them for some other reason? A sale?"

"I don't." These were the kind of cognitive leaps he made several times an hour. He had been called every name in the book for his methods, including idiot, including phenom. But now he was decades past being a rookie, and decades past the insecure need to justify himself to others. That was when he made mistakes, when he started to care about perception. "It's part of my process."

Eames snorted again. But this time it wasn't all derision or disbelief it was laced with awe, sort of. "You _really_ considered all that when you found a box of pens?"

"In about a millisecond." He said without arrogance. It was a well-traveled path for him, not a marvel.

"I agree purple _is_ his favourite colour." She said tongue in cheek. His process was crazy, but likely right. _**Imagine if he gave a shit what anyone thought. Imagine if he used his powers for evil**_.

Bobby stared ahead, eyes fixed on the road not registering much about Eames, but with visions of purple pens dancing in his head. He was what Malcolm Gladwell would call an Outlier. An enormously successful cop, that travelled a non-linear path and had a solve rate that defied statistical sense. On a graph Goren was the red dot off on the white space, while his peers were an arc of clustered red pocks that looked like a population density map of Manhattan. Moreover, Bobby thought of himself as an outlier (with a small o). He was socially isolated. He was separate.

That thought gave him a greater appreciation for this conversation. He was glad Eames had made him say all that aloud. Thinking and articulating existed in two completely different dimensions. And he did the former way too much. Bobby considered that for a moment. _**Right now**_ _**I'm thinking about thinking too much**_.

Goren never justified himself, except to her. And only because Eames was a safe space. He was sitting beside the only person in the world who would start this conversation. He was lucky to have her. They had more of a bond then most people ever got. Like colour, they were also physical, philosophical and metaphysical.

"I'm a little bit afraid of you." Alex joked. But he had his thinking cap on, and the nuance of jokes were beyond him.

He spun on her intensely, "What do you mean?"

"Whoa! Down boy." She rested a hand on his arm and it had the effect of a string on a helium balloon. He felt the weight of her through three layers of fabric. It reminded him that planet earth wasn't just a concept, but a place with people and with _her._ Alex. It also restored his sense of humour. He got her joke now. He smiled wryly. She was right. He was scary. Scary oblivious. Scary focused.

He slipped his fingers under her curled ones, and brought the small pale things to his lips. She _was_ small. And with daylight hours spent in cars and under fluorescent lights, she _was_ pale. And in her role as team skeptic, she _was_ isolated. And in her tight black jeans and black leather jacket and holster, she _was_ more Hell's Angel then little lady. But, just as she always saw him, he occasionally saw her too. And today, she didn't just want to debunk junk science, she wanted to be on the inside of his tremendous mental fortifications.

"What're you do…" She looked at her hand in his, and the words fell away.

"I like your hands." He said, turning his power of focus on her.

"You do?"

"Yes. Look at this." He put her palm against his. Her fingertips, including her finely rounded manicure, were only as tall as two of his phalanges. "So small."

"You're a giant." She murmured.

"And this skin. Soft, smooth. One callus." It was on her right middle finger, from holding a pen.

"Yeah those forms don't fill themselves in." She whispered.

"And…" He wanted to say more but in the bright morning light, in their crime fighting clothes, it seemed too cheesy. So instead he pressed her palm to his temple and closed his eyes for a moment, symbolically. It was an anointment of warmth, as her personal chrism, her moisture and oils seeped into his skin. Alex let her fingertips play in his hair and thought _**he could disappear into this head and never be seen again. **_

"1PP?" She asked at last, letting her hand trail away.

He nodded.

* * *

"You check his LUDs? Maybe he had a connection to the projects." This question from their captain was the starkest contrast to their car conversation. Deakins was a devoted member of the statistical average. LUDs, _really_? LUDs were policing 101. They'd requested LUDs from the scene.

"Or it's about the personal call he got before he left work." Goren offered playing their mandatory game of banal speculation. "He brought a gun, maybe someone he knew was in trouble."

Eames couldn't focus. Her mind was firmly on the bullpen. Michael Logan was perfectly framed by the plate glass window behind them. He if he were a painting he would be 'Portrait of a Miserable Cop' "You just gonna leave him there?" She threw a thumb back in this direction. No one turned. Logan's body was rounded over his tiny desk in abject boredom. He was blocked from the rest of the squad by a large concrete pillar. He was exiled on a rectangular wooden island of penance. Bobby had been right. It had taken six months, but Mike Logan was Major Case. Sort of.

"Where I can see him." Deakins explained. "I burned a couple of favours to get him here, we'll see." The phone gave a piercing beep and the Captain snatched it up "_Deakins. Where?" _Then away from the mouthpiece. "They found him."

They had a body.

Saying '_finally'_ sounded insensitive, so Goren and Eames only thought it. They stood in unison to leave, but Deakins stopped them. "Eames a word." He said shortly, looking at Bobby. The big detective seemed befuddled for a moment, shuffling his shiny Oxfords, not budging. He wasn't sure how to move without her. In the office they were magnetized. But it was clear. He was the interloper.

"Uh, I'll be wa- waiting at the car." He said. Their eyes met. His look to her was hard. Hers was too. _Solidarity_, was their silent duet.

Once they were alone, in the quiet grey room, Jimmy said. "Don't go circling the wagons. This isn't about Goren." _**This time**_, went clearly unspoken. "This is about Logan."

"Logan?" He caught her off guard.

"Yes. Sit." It was a gentle command. Made more so when Deakins sat too. But instead of sitting adversarially across at his desk, he sat beside her, in the warm spot left by her partner, She turned awkwardly to look at him. This close she could see the after effects of his Bell's Palsy in one asymmetrical eyelid, and the added worry lines that forked across his brow. She had never been this close to him. She crossed her arms and legs at the thought. He did not mimic. "You are a stabilizing force." He said at last.

Eames bit the inside of her upper lip a little. "A…"

"A stabilizing force. You have decisive manner. You know the rules. And people respond to your energy."

"Thanks." Her voice faltered.

"Logan is the opposite." His voice dropped to a murmur. Deakins was worried that Logan would hear them through 3/4 inch glass. It was kind of funny actually. "Everyone who knew I was takin' him on wished me _good luck_." He rolled his eyes and gestured his head to Logan. "When he's good he's damn good, when he's bad he's a disaster."

Eames nodded.

"I'm tellin' you this alone because I don't want to undermine him. And we're talking like this." He gestured lightly at the small gap between them. "because this has to stay confidential. I trust you. I always have."

Her shoulders tucked back and she felt the lightness of his compliment. This was rare and pretty awesome. Normally their solve record spoke for the partnership, but to be singled out and praised? No one could remain unaffected.

"I already know who I'm partnering him with." Outside the window the portrait had shifted. Now the dark haired detective was leaning back in his chair studying the acoustic ceiling tiles.

_**Pretty ballsy move for your first day on the job, **_Eames thought with some measure of admiration. _**Fucking the dog right outside your boss's office.**_

"I wish it were you." Deakins said wistfully, "But you and Goren are working. I'm not going to touch that."

She nodded again. Processing all this new information, starting to feel light headed, not just lighter.

"Logan. I just want you to give him an ear. Make sure he integrates. I know, I know, not your job. And I remember. Don't think I'll ever forget: '_You have ovaries but you're nobody's mother.'_" He paraphrased her speech to him from 4 years ago. She was impressed. And Alex, the woman, suddenly had a new and very real understanding of James Deakins as a sensitive man. "You will be compensated. Time and quarter. Until he gets his sea legs."

"Define sea legs." She spoke for the first time.

"Ease, until there's ease. Probably a month, Barek will be here next week."

_**Barek**_. She filed that name in her databank, there was a nosey web search on the menu tonight.

"What will I do for a month?"

"Like I said just give him an ear. Lead by example. I'm going to give him some of your paper. Might let him ride shotgun with you, if you're going out alone." Then the Captain started as if remembering something unpalatable. "And, if you go out with the squad after hours, make sure he comes."

She balked at that one. 'How am I gonna do that? Knock him over the head, and lay him out on the back seat?"

Deakins smiled. "No. Just put the screws to him, same as you would any of the gang." The Captain and the detective turned in unison to look out the glass. Now Logan was hurling sharp pencils at the ceiling to see if they would stick. "Jesus Christ." Deakins muttered.

"You put the worst kid in class behind a huge pole. Take your own advice and integrate him." She said a little more sharply then she'd intended. And was surprised when he didn't take offence.

"I know, I know." He paused. "So, will you…"

"What about Goren? I have to tell him."

"Well Goren isn't going gossip." They both puffed out a laugh. "But there was a pissing contest last time, on that Brooklyn Fed one. Some kinda something going on."

"Yeah. Don't worry, I'll fix that." Famous last words. Then against her better judgement she said. "You know, you could just pull rank instead of paying me. You're asking me to do something that you could get for free. _We_ shadowed someone when we got here. _We_ got harassed into going to Flanagan's after hours."

"I know, by Donovan." He said with such certainty, that her brows knit and her head cocked. Chris Donovan her Major Case decoy. The cop she'd briefly dated because she had wanted Bobby so badly. She hadn't heard his name in two years. Not since he'd gotten his lieutenant and moved on.

"Donovan." She said dazedly. A realization was dawning.

"You didn't know." Deakins looked sheepish. "Donovan got time and a quarter too."

* * *

It was 7:03 on a Wednesday morning. And they were paying Dr. Evan Chapel a very calculated housecall. The night before they had done a bit of recon. Locating Gwen Chapel's school, learning what time the commencement bell rang, and whether she was a bus student. Their arrival during the morning rush would create a 'destabilizing urgency'. Which was also 'marketing 101'- according to Goren. It would also catch Chapel before he could use work as an excuse to evade them - which was 'gutless weasel 101' according to Eames. Both detectives had tired eyes and big hot coffees. It had been a late night. And with a baby, a ridiculously early morning. Thankfully the roads in Nassau County were a treat. Longer and sparser. Great grey strips to meditate on, not like the city, with jerky stops, conflicting signs, and crazed jaywalkers. It was an easy hour from 1PP.

"So you were right." Eames broke the silence.

"About what?" Goren asked quietly.

"The vic. The tween niece, the chinese food, the epipen, the condoms, the travel brochures." Yesterday they had tossed Larry Chapel's apartment. And Alex felt obligated to eat crow. This was rare. She never gave him accolades for a precise profile. Profiling was more like a reflex then a job now. Praising him for it, was like praising him for eating his supper. But she was making reparations for her doubt.

"No, i - it's good." He stuttered. "You help me." The discomfort of her questions shored him up. But only because they had a common goal. And because even in conflict he trusted her motivations. But there were some motivations he didn't trust. Like this bizarre request from from Deakins. Bobby didn't believe for one second that the NYPD been paying time and a quarter to give new MCS detectives a frosh week. His instincts were telling him the Deakins was trying to put a wedge between him and Eames and he wasn't sure why. Into the silence he asked for the fifth time, "Tell me again what Deakins said? What does he want you to do exactly?"

"_I told you_ it's nothing. He just wants me to help give the guy a good start." She looked over at him, "Deakins knows I don't have time for socializing. This is going to be strictly business. Logan'll take some of our work. I'll let him know that he can ask me anything about the job. I'll also see that the guys get him involved after hours."

"That's what his partner is for."

Her lips twisted "If you'll recall during our first month of partnership I wanted to kill you, and then I tried to replace you, it's not easy when you're starting out."

"He's a good cop, but he's got issues."

Alex turned and glared at him for five full beats. "Holy crap Bobby! Pot meet kettle."

"I _mean_ he's the kind that likes to hit things."

"So."

"It's an asshole quality. It's poor impulse control and elevated testosterone levels."

"Hey, most guys I know think he's a hero for socking that politician."

"Whatever," His opinions on most people would curl her hair if he said them out loud. That was the downside of knowing what everybody was thinking and doing, it also made you deeply judgemental. "The point is, he hits first. It's a good indication of his personality on all levels, he's not a thinker."

"I hate to break it to you, but most cops aren't thinkers. You're unique."

"Tell Deakins to pick someone else." Goren didn't know why he said that. Their work and home lives were a lot like church and state. A firm separation. This conversation was blurring all kinds of lines.

"No! Are you kidding? I hardly have to do anything and I'm getting a quarter more salary. A quarter! It's only for a month and we need the money. We could get that new mattress, or pay the nanny all that back overtime, or even save toward a vacation."

Her logic was unerring. It always was. And for Alex that was the end of it. She turned back to the road.

"Maybe I should help, you know, in an unpaid capacity." He offered.

"Maybe you should back off."

_He knew it. _The caution in her tone reeked of senior management. Alex wouldn't tell him to back off of Logan, Alex had no loyalty to Logan. "Back off?"

"You were getting into it with him last time. There were some tense moments. Even the captain noticed."

"Deakins has a lot of opinions all of a sudden." He muttered "Asking you to go above and beyond the call of duty. And don't blame the _tension _on me. _We were all _playing Logan last time. Because he's a mark. So easy to manipulate. Mike Logan is a beat cop."

"Snob. Can you even hear yourself? We're all glorified beat cops. And some like my dad _never stopped_ being one."

This is getting out of hand. He was treading into taboo topics. Her dad was her hero. "The captain is manipulating us."

"You are losing it. He hardly asked me to spend any time at all with Logan. He's basically giving us free money."

Right about then Goren got a niggle. There was more. Something she wasn't saying. And if he pushed in just the right way it would twist free. Unfortunately that push would have to be negative. "Someone else could do this Alex. A _man_ would be better suited. Guys love the brotherhood. Especially chauvinists like Logan."

Her head did two full revolutions, exorcist style.

"What did you just say?" Her voice was sinister.

"Let someone else do it." He purposely removed the controversy, so she would think he was chastened and give it to him with both barrels.

"If you think so little of women, maybe _you_ should be partnered with this guy Barek and I should see what my chemistry is like with Mike. Permanently." She didn't shout or screech, rather she was deadpan and guttural. And scary.

"Is that on the table?" He whispered. "A new partner?"

"Of course not." She backtracked and he smelled the guilt.

"Alex!" The way he said her name was so sharp, firm and _rare_, that she jumped. "So Deakins wishes, that you could spread your calm, _stable _influence all over Mike."

Her silence spoke volumes.

Bobby wasn't feeling very stable at the moment. So it was like that. Jimmy had never been his friend, but he'd never been an adversary either. Jimmy knew personal details about him and Alex that made him more than a boss. Goren wasn't sure what to make of this. But it was odd. He was feeling possessive.

Something about Logan made him feel inadequate. Maybe because he was so much like Alex - in disposition, in upbringing, in policing philosophy. Maybe because in their potential partnership he saw a much better match. Maybe not a better solve rate, but more ease and flow. Maybe because he knew Alex liked Mike. Maybe there was no boogeyman. Maybe, distilled to its base components, this was just jealousy. **_The problem is rooted in the conceiver not the object._** It was rooted in emotions Robert Goren didn't often confront. Feelings of personal inadequacy.

He was confused.

Was Deakins the enemy or was he?

And did he need to worry about Mike Logan?

Silence reigned, until they pulled into the Chapel driveway.

* * *

Gwen Chapel was a sweet dark haired girl, wearing a plaid private school pinafore, and the precocious certainty of a child actor. Or so Goren thought when he asked, "What are you reading there?"

"It's a book about ways kids can make themselves feel better when people they love die." The girl handed him a cheery yellow hardcover, benignly titled 'Where Did Granma Go?' The words and illustrations were so absent of sadness, that Goren flipped to the end, half expecting to find that Granma had gone to the grocery store, or an AARP meeting. But no, it was, as the girl said, a juvenile take on death.

He thought of the crime scene photos of Larry Chapel. They were zipped up tight in his binder on the counter. He wished for a brief moment that his own relationship with death was this shallow. Death (or rather its effects on the living) were so complicated. This child had seen more then her share. It was good for her sanity that had been sanitized. Goren saw corpses on a daily basis and could still barely conceptualize it. This was one of the places his Catholicism had lapsed hard. He had no firm belief system about the final transition, or the afterlife.

"Sorry about your uncle." He offered to Gwen, handing back the book. Almost mesmerized by the child's openness and vitality. It stood in stark contrast to her ex-junkie father. Goren had never thought about it before, but there were varying levels of aliveness, just the way there were stages of death. Evan Chapel wore a guarded expression, sallow cheeks, and his sharp thin shoulder blades made his suit jacket look like it was still on the hanger.

"He was a troubled soul." Gwen chirped. "He took drugs to make the pain go away. He's with my mom in heaven now."

Eames silently _**humphed**_. She'd met 50 year old funeral directors with a less mature grasp of the big dirt nap. Her eagle eyes narrowed on Chapel Sr.

"Bye nice meeting you!" Came Gwen's perfect manners, from the front door. Those parting words heightened Goren's awareness. There was an energetic difference between that child and her father. It was a difference so vast, that it felt like the two couldn't abide by each other. He wasn't sure what it meant.

"Somebody gave that girl the straight story and it wasn't her dad." Eames said.

He looked around the kitchen. There was no one here to do that. There were only echoes of a woman's touch, slowly yielding to austerity. "It might be the same person who gave her that book. It's from the library at Middleton college."

* * *

She came in like a lamb.

Nicole Wallace still had brown eyes that twinkled with psychopathic rebellion. But this wasn't a podium perched above a post-graduate university class on American Literature, or the Savile Row arm of a local millionaire, or even the loft where she'd slyly mentored an aspiring diamond thief. There was no glamour in the stacks of this suburban community college. It smelled like old paper. Every book had a cracked or peeling spine, and the cream lacquered shelves had yellowed from layers of oily fingerprints. The budget didn't flow toward the library. As the name implied, Middleton Community College was middling. And in her duties here Nicole Wallace was strikingly normal.

This performance would show her range.

Holding the Thai Buddha keychain tightly, Goren signalled silently for Eames to close the net. They split up and flanked either end of her stack, until the killer (come librarian) was trapped. Trapped like a fox. She was calm and sure. Never had an animal been more delighted to be caught.

"If it weren't for your lucky charm we would have missed you." Goren jingled her keys.

"Looks like your luck has run out." Eames quipped.

"What a little pagan you are detective. Don't you know the secret of luck is never to trust it" She snapped her phone shut, "My lawyer will meet us at your office." She presented her hands to Goren in supplication and it triggered him. She'd done the same when she'd blitzed him at the grocery store. And no move she made was without calculation.

They took her on an impressive perp walk. The silver of their handcuffs glinting from her delicate wrists, like this season's must-have accessories. The trio took a winding path through the student clogged tables and down the wide stairs. They passed her flustered coworkers. And jackbooted past professors. Eames had an elbow, and Goren had an elbow, and yet Wallace _wore_ _the detectives _like the full plumage of a peacock. Her chin was high and her shoulders were back. Alex noticed the way she turned her head to stare brightly at anyone who watched them leave. She was as mad as a hatter, and enviably shameless.

The detectives defaulted easily into protocol. They'd both done the perp walk a million times. But neither of them had been prepared to capture such big game today. This wasn't a crime scene, so they weren't accompanied by host of helpful uniforms. And while their SUV was the Rolls-Royce of police vehicles, it didn't come equipped with a cage. Either they would have to request assistance from the Nassau County Police Department or do it themselves, which meant 52 minutes in a rolling black box with their nemesis.

Wallace appeared small and pretty and blonde, but that was witchcraft. Anyone but these two would have woefully underestimated her. Bobby headed Alex off. Indicating he would do this, that she should have his back. He felt irrationally as though Nicole was his burden, and Alex was too valuable to be compromised. Never mind the inherent sexism in that thought. Under normal circumstances Eames would've balked. She would've pulled him aside and torn his head off. But division in the ranks was not an option today. So Eames stayed apart from them, with her hand on her piece, watching.

Goren patted Wallace down again, for safety.

"Didn't quite get every nook and cranny the first time?" She asked cheekily. He was as silent as a tomb. Then he undid her cuffs, and redid them walking her through the process with robotic courtesy.

"I'm going to secure your hands behind your back. I'm going to work your belt through each cuff to limit your range of motion."

"Yes safety first." She agreed playfully.

"I'm also going to secure your feet." He said, holding shackles he'd found in the trunk of their requisition, it was a BDSM wonderland back there.

"Bit much don't you think?" She watched amused.

"Last we heard, you'd smashed a trachea, jumped out a two story window, and swam off into the Hudson River like Aquaman. So we'll play it safe." Eames piped up dryly.

"Really is that the _last_ you heard?" Wallace looked pointedly at Bobby. "I'm positively mythic at the NYPD."

Alex looked between the two. He was ignoring Nicole with such intensity that his whole upper body was angled awkwardly away. And she was overcompensating by leaning in. It was a disgusting tableau. _**What is with her and Bobby?**_ Why was she always so desperate to engage him?

"There we are." Nicole said, "all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. If I'd had known you liked bondage so much Bobby, I would have brought my toys."

Goren folded their prisoner into the back seat and then himself. Being this close to Nicole. Snapping her seatbelt, touching her arms, and legs was cloyingly intimate. And she loved every second of his discomfort. She moved to press against him anytime she could. Nicole's gaze was so hot and heavy on him, that it was almost assault. He cracked a window and silently sucked in air. A post traumatic memory popped into his head. A case, years ago now. He'd been sitting in a backseat just like this one, with a teenage bike thief named Frankie. What was the perps name? JoJo. JoJo Rios. A small time thug with a Marcus Aurelius playbook. JoJo had recruited children to create the largest bike theft ring that Prospect Heights and Park Slope had ever seen. That scum really had done a number on those kids. He'd given all of his toy soldiers a cyanide capsule to take in case of capture. At the time Bobby had been unprepared for that sort of evil. Now he remembered viscerally how the boy's mouth had foamed and how his body had bucked. He'd taken the pill. He'd killed himself. He'd only been 16 years old. Goren glanced at Nicole. He hadn't checked her mouth, but he knew there _was_ poison behind those shiny capped teeth. The verbal kind. And they were all in for a dose.

"You have a lovely son." Wallace opened, as their tires met the asphalt of the I-495 west.

There was a barely perceptible tightening in Eames' shoulders, but she didn't say a word. She was merely a pawn in the chess match being played behind her.

"So big and strong like his daddy."

Eames swallowed back a little vomit. _**Stalker.**_

"I'm so happy for you two. Who would've guessed, a crime-fighting sensation and burning up the sheets."

Bobby let out a long slow pained breath.

Nicole leaned diagonally toward Alex. "You pretend to be a little man, but I knew you were all woman."

_**Dyke!**_ Alex raged quietly.

Bobby seized Nicole's shoulder and shoved her back hard against the seat.

"Do it again." She taunted.

He could almost hear Alex breathing, short puffs. The angry heaving of a bull in front of a large red capote.

"You were right, you know. I put a tracking device in this car, or whatever car you using." Wallace admitted without being asked.

More silence met her confession.

"Don't worry your secrets are safe with me. If eating copious amounts of fast food is a secret. Really Bobby, balance your diet. Give little Jude a good example."

He ran a hand through his hair. An uncommon motion that showed his agitation.

"It was very easy." Wallace continued. "Do you know how underpaid police vehicle technicians are? Do you know how without scruples they are?" She spoke freely knowing that prosecuting her for this, would be like getting Al Capone on tax evasion.

Alex grabbed the steering wheel tighter and let her foot go leaden on the accelerator. This had to be over soon, or she was going to unbuckle, jump into the backseat and beat that bitch to a bloody pulp.

Bobby on the other hand wanted to ask questions. Why and who. He wanted to investigate, but he felt impotent. Which was odd. By all appearances he still had the upper hand. Nicole was tied up, and on her way justice, and he was the one meting it out.

But that was cold comfort.

Power is not a consequence of circumstance or material superiority. Real power and real influence, come from certainty. From the complete harmony of your goal and your belief in yourself. Nicole Wallace, as sick as she was, had both of those in spades. She did not look in the mirror and judge herself harshly. She looked in the mirror and saw something glorious. Robert Goren did not have that skill. Every time they met she cleaved him in two. She syphoned off his power by disconnecting his lifelong mission to see justice, from the part of himself he loved, the part that _solved_. That was why he'd never caught her. It wasn't her cat like reflexes, or her Einstein-like brain. It was moments like this. Moments of utter inner turmoil.

"Did you tell your detective Eames how we've talked on the phone? About how we met in the grocery?" She asked. "About how much little Jude and I bonded?"

He couldn't take it anymore. She was making this out to be something it wasn't. He exploded, "Shut up! _Shut up!_ We have 15 minutes before you meet your fate, and I don't want to hear another word."

"Touchy." She lilted defiantly.

And then it was quiet.

Her work was done.

The consuming silence was literally and figuratively la petite mort.

* * *

Alex wasn't talking to him.

Work was solid.

They had a cornucopia of clues to sort through. Water heater manuals, and probable cervical cancer. Whiteboards with timelines, and meetings about old autopsies. Thick files of legalese laden lawsuit settlements, and subpoenas to be issued. Work was a codex and they we're doing a slow methodical translation.

Home was a fugue.

Each night Alex shut off the moment they opened the front door. She locked him out of the happy bubble of love she created with Jude. He could hear them laughing as she bathed him. He could hear her singing. He could hear her murmuring a bedtime story. Then she emerged from the hallway, threw a pillow, sheet and blanket onto the couch beside him, and shut the bedroom door with a heavy thick click.

Even as Bobby laid out his makeshift bed, even as he realized he was living the oldest married couple trope of all, there was no humour in it. It didn't feel like a TV show. He thought about clichés, _'let's not go to bed angry'_ or '_this old couch is full of springs'_. He waited for the laugh track. None came. It felt as though he had genuinely lost something.

He did his best to undo the damage, alone. He tried not to subject Alex to Nicole unnecessarily between the hours of 9 and 5. He took interrogation alone. He liaised with Carver alone. And days later he met with Nicole, alone. She sat on a bench, along the edge of a municipal commons, in the shadow of another library, basking in her freedom. Today she looked disturbingly wholesome. Was she pretending? Or having a psychotic break? Goren was in no mood for this new pious act. When she offered to share her carrots sticks from a Ziploc bag, he wanted to rip them out of her hand, throw them into the bushes, and scream _**this is not high school!**_ She was mocking his diet. She only meant to twist the knife she lodged in him earlier.

She was making a fool of the justice system and of her victims.

God he was angry.

Angrier then he'd ever been at her.

They had teased, they had taunted, they had circled each other for years. But it had been a game between consenting adults. Now she had introduced a minor. He was heavy with irrational guilt. As if he had given her the idea to co-opt a child. Acquiring a daughter was a horrific bit of oneupmanship. He thought of Jude, he thought of Nicole's own daughter Charlotte Grace. He thought of Gwen Chapel. They struck him in the heart. He looked at Nicole and saw her true demon skin. She was nothing but a filthy succubus.

"A husband without a wife, a little girl without a mother! That's convenient for you isn't it? What's this?" He grabbed the book that was sitting by her side 'Being the Best She Can Be: Building Your Daughter's Self-Esteem.' Wow. You think that by reading a book, and throwing on an apron you can approximate being the parent to a child? I mean that's like an ape trying to eat with a fork and knife."

"I wasn't born to it but I'm getting better." She said wearing a mask of calm devastation.

"And there was a vacancy! That's lucky for you."

"I had nothing to do with his wife's death."

"Yes you did. You killed her and Larry. Not only can you zero in on the weakness of a person, but you have the cold-blooded willingness to exploit them. _Even a little girl!"_

No." She puffed.

"Even with birth defects." He spat grabbing for his evidence. "Three months ago you used the library computer to download information on Gwen's lawsuit, because that's what you're after. You're after the money."

"You believe me capable of anything. Libraries have always been a refuge for me, all those books. Was it the same for you?" It was a jarring non sequitur. It betrayed her. She had called him to bond. To patch over their antagonism. But she forgot herself. She thought goodness was a costume that a person could wear and take off at will. She thought she could appropriate of all the things he loved - his child, his mother's legacy, books - and he would believe in her decency. It made him hate her.

"What did you want to tell me about Gwen and Evan?" He demanded.

"Nothing."

"You leave them alone!" He shouted.

"I'm free to do as I please for my own reasons Bobby. reason you'll never know." And she propelled off the bench (with unearned indignation).

He watched her stomp off across the court and then he was alone. He sat there for a long time in the noonday sun. It was shades of _that_ interrogation room. The day he'd tried to turn Ella Miyazaki. The last time he'd seen her alive. Today his arms weighed a million pounds. They sloped his shoulders. They rested on the bench, long, loose and limp, exactly like that ape he'd invoked. His palms up. His hands cupping futile air.

Empty.

If he lost another innocent, if Gwen died, something inside him would die too.

* * *

In the end he hadn't lost Gwen.

Instead he had resurrected Nicole's conscience. Goren liked to think of it as magic. When he was a boy, he'd tapped a black hat with a paper wand and a plastic rose had appeared. Maybe, inside that library he had harnessed the creative energy from all those books, lumped together a soul, and forced it into her. Pure wizardry.

More likely Wallace had realized that a child was a major liability to a fugitive. And that pre-cancerous Gwen was a dead girl walking anyway. Nonetheless Nicole had called to give him the credit "this is another thing you've taken from me." She had said. Bobby understood Nicole. She didn't cede to weakness. What she had really meant to say was "I'll be back".

But he had time.

_**Now I can breath again,**_ he thought.

That relief was premature.

"I never asked, how was your date?" Alex asked with faux lightness. They were at home. It was a Friday evening in the lull between cases. They had a rare weekend off. It should have been an 'uncork a bottle of champagne' kind of night. Their foe was gone, and weekends off were fairytales. But those words, were her first ones off-the-clock in a week.

Dread rose up in his throat. "What date?"

"Well, you went to see Nicole, twice, by yourself. You closed the case." She didn't sound grateful.

"We both closed the case."

"No. Don't sell yourself short. You _really_ went above and beyond on this one."

She was scary.

He decided to change tack. "Nicole's in the wind, the case isn't closed."

"Well thank God for that! Imagine if we'd actually caught her, then you'd have to stop chasing."

Goren didn't say anything. He sat and stared at her, with folded fingers pressed to bloodless lips. After sometime he stated the obvious, "You're still angry."

Alex laughed like machine gun fire. Her legs began to pace. "Are you in love with her?"

"With who?"

The look she gave him was so withering, that he felt his skin curling off the bone.

"No I'm not in love with her. Are you insane?"

"No. I'm the only sane one in this room." Alex's pacing was now clomping. Heavy steps across parquet and rug, back and forth, back and forth, she felt like she was going to combust. Such a pressure had built up in her over the last week. "You visited her twice, you were alone with her four times. You didn't ask for backup, not once." She stopped planted her hands on her hips. "In the end there, at the school, you completely lost your shit."

"A serial killer just abducted a child, and it was on me."

Her scoff was a blend air and spit and derision. "On you? _On you?_ Since when are the actions of… that… that _thing_, your responsibility? Listen to yourself. You have feelings and you won't admit it." She was trembling a little. Her throat was sore from holding back tides bile.

"_I don't have_ feelings for Nicole Wallace. I was trying to save Gwen Chapel."

"Stop" It was barely a whisper, but it was powerfully punctuated by her hand in the air. "I am _gagging_ on the irony of the situation."

"What are you talking about?" His voice was low and his brow knit.

"You! Risking your life, and Nicole's retribution, just to get close to her. To crawl under her skin and feel what she feels. And all of it for _someone else's_ kid. Screwing over your own son." She shook her head with reproach.

"_What?!_"

"You didn't tell me that Nicole Wallace was _inches_ away from Jude. You didn't tell me you've been having phone conversations. _Conversations_ plural. You haven't been telling me a lot of things Bobby."

"She surprised me every time." He defended. "In the grocery store, on the phone. I didn't expect it. I protected Jude. I left! I left even though I should have arrested her. I took an oath to serve and protect and I chose Jude."

"No. I've been watching you, since I stopped trusting you. You showed more honest emotion toward that girl, then you have toward your own son, ever. _Something is wrong with you._ If that bitch comes back here, and tries to do anything to my child I will shoot her in the face!" Alex laughed with hysteria, flinging both hands in him "And you'll be in mourning."

"_Ever since you stopped trusting me?" _He was galled.

"Bobby, you're an amazing cop, but you are a shitty boyfriend and an average father."

He reeled. Reeled like she'd smashed him in the face. Realization dawned. Clearly the case of Bobby and Alex had two sets of books. The official ones, and the secret ones where she kept a tally of his wrongs. His voice was thready. "Thank you for telling me that."

"Don't play that card, don't pretend to be wounded. _You don't get to be the baby. _We have a baby! And he is your priority. I don't care who is killing people! Jude comes _first, last and always_."

"I've tried to put him first."

"No you put yourself first, _every time_. I put Jude first, you second, and me third _every time_." He didn't even recognize her. She was that distorted with anger. This had been a long time coming.

"Nicole…" He began, and she cut him off ruthlessly.

"Nicole plays you. And every instinct, every bit of your _uncommon_ sense goes out the window."

"She's a master manipulator. Even I have my weaknesses Alex."

"You want to be weak. You love weakness."

He thrust up to his feet. He felt too small there on the couch with her anger raining down on him. He needed his stature, it was the only leg he had to stand on. "Get some perspective. Nicole doesn't mean that much!" He slammed the countertop with a balled up fist and an annoyed grunt. It rattled a bowl of bananas and the drinking glass, that held his newly sprouted avocado pit. "She's making us fight over nothing."

"This is not nothing." Alex turned away, her eyes were watery pools of fatigue and anger and sadness. "She depletes you. Every time she comes around, she leaves with a piece of you. You change for the worse and I can't stop it. All the other cases, they chip away at you too, but something about her… it obsesses you."

"_She doesn't._ Don't say things like that! All I care about is our commitment. Our son."

"We wouldn't even have a son if it wasn't for Nicole Wallace." She said, sotto voce.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Don't you remember that night? That first night... On that shitty La-Z-Boy? Don't you remember?" She drilled into him heartlessly. Nothing about the experience had been 'shitty'. Alex regretted so much about her words and her tone, but from her _raging_ vantage, the world was blood red.

"Yeah I remember perfectly. _You_ came to _me__**."**_

"Yes I came to you. I did it because _you were devastated._ You thought you were the most hated cop in the city. You were _falling apart._ That's what I do Bobby! I pick up your pieces."

He huffed. He huffed because… clarity. A single gust of air collided with his throat. He was choking under the power of a dainty feminine grip. He'd forgotten about that. After Dan Croydon. Timing. Fate. Es muss sein.

Nicole was the engineer of his life.

And Alex was the tool of fate.

In his mind his partner was a high priestess, the Oracle of Delphi handing down a prophecy. In her mind she was more like a badass cyborg sent back in time to save a boy. Their competing visions said it all. Pythia versus Schwarzenegger. This divide was more than a case of 'she's a little bit country, he's a little bit rock 'n' roll.'

"Nicole doesn't control me." He gritted out. Saying exactly what a sane person should say. He knew that believing in fate was relinquishing control - as a man, as a father - to some philosophical concept, but...

"Nicole stimulates you. I can see that. She's a good intellectual match for you. I know can't give you that. Do you think knowing that doesn't hurt me?!" He made a move toward her. Alex jerked back. "I'm not a genius. But I'm also not a psychopath."

"Alex."

"Keep pushing her. Keep trying to satisfy your own morbid curiosity. Someone you love will end up dead. And that _really will_ be on you!"

She had said her piece. Alex turned and grabbed her coat and her purse. Then paused with her back to him. Jude was asleep. It was almost painful to leave him for even a moment, given all that she'd said. But she couldn't breathe in this small room. It was a uniquely feminine dilemma, to feel responsible for another to the exclusion of self. But she had to go.

"I need some air, don't forget about Jude."

He watched the front door close.

* * *

The next day Alex drove to Inwood.

Duty called. Family duty.

It had taken 3 months of convincing, but her dad was selling the house. They now had a real estate agent. Someone Liz chose. No surprise she was the top earning agent north of 96th. Her business card said: Louise Kendrick _Realtor., ., MBA. _All those letters screamed overqualified. But Liz had airs. On the phone her sister had actually singsonged 'the best for the best.' But Louise Kendrick had other ideas about the state of their family home. She had suggested repairs, furniture edits and renovations. She emailed Alex a list that would have intimidated Santa. But if they did it all, she guaranteed the house would sell for $2.7 million.

In the end the stress had brought Alex closer to her siblings. Coordinating her father's life was a full-time job split three ways. Trades to do the work, a borough wide search for his new apartment, and culling all of his junk. There were piles of 'keep, sell, and throw away' so gigantic that they were visible from the International Space Station.

Today Alex had Jude on her hip, and the last room to tackle. "Dad!" She banged on the door with ferocity. "Dad!" She'd been out here for five minutes. Deja vu. Different day, same story. _**Where was he?**_ "Dad!" She called again, her hands cinching on the weight of her child, soothing his small back.

Finally, heavy steps approached from inside. Johnny Eames answered brusquely ripping the door open. He gave her a look that she could only describe as _completely blank_. Devoid of any recognition, devoid of any emotion. Alex put a tentative hand on him and he pulled away sharply. This man looked like her dad in every way - loafers, button up, slacks - except in the one that mattered, his character.

"Don't touch me." He barked. "I don't know y…" He stopped mid sentence.

"Dad?" Her eyes were wide.

Nothing.

"Dad."

And just like that, a crashing wave of awareness, and he was back. He laughed with unrestrained joy at the sight of his grandson. "Jude!" He crowed. He extended his arms. Jude, her dark haired and rosy cheeked treasure, was an easy baby, one who had a variety of love in his life, aunts and uncles and cousins and nannies. Jude leaned into the love without reservation.

"Are you okay?" Alex asked hesitantly, letting her boy go to his Grandpa.

"Of course I'm okay." Johnny crowed, "Save your energy for the attic."

He sure sounded like her dad: crusty and entitled.

"Good." She followed him into the shamble-chic rooms. It looked nothing like the home she'd grown up in. The wallpaper was gone, the photos gone, the Queen Anne was gone, the couches were tarp draped, and the mud coloured carpets had been ripped up revealing a medium toned hardwood. It was a bittersweet sight. It was the end of an era. "How are you coping?" She asked his back.

"Oh you know. It's…" He shrugged. "Different." That was the stoicism he'd cultivated over five decades on the job.

"Yeah. It's time to move on." Alex said sadly, worried for him. Her dad would never be real. He would never bitch, or scream, or cry. He would plod soundlessly from this house to his next one. The toll of his emotional repression would be invisible. But it would damage his mind. _**He could disappear into his head and never be seen again. **_It broke her heart. But Alex was her father's daughter and she plodded on too. "I've got some news for you, from 1PP."

"What's that?" Johnny turned sharply, his blue eyes were two hot glowing coals of interest.

"Mike Logan is Major Case."

"Hot damn!"

She had just made his year.


End file.
